Metal and Lace
by Strykenine
Summary: John and Cameron find themselves in the past as Cameron tries to recall her origins and reclaim her identity. Followup to Six Days, Seven Nights.
1. Chapter 1

Authors note: I had to do some quick rewrites on this after I had posted it. If you've read it, then I don't think you've missed anything of any great importance. This is what I get for writing most of this four months ago and just finishing it up today…

(*****)

John tried to ignore the thunder welling in his chest as it turned his hands to putty and fear rolled over him in a cold sweat. That thing down below had just killed his father, throwing him aside like so many other broken soldiers. He saw it cut a deep wound into Alison and toss her aside as well. He had to hurry before it found him with Cameron, stationary and undefended.

Cameron was still and silent on the displacement pad, her dormant body wrapped in its white sheet. John felt her chip in his hand one last time before he finished keying in the sequence on the machine. He locked in the final date and spatial coordinates just as he heard an animal roar from down below. He forced himself to look one last time.

James was fighting the thing hand to hand. John gritted his teeth - he was leaving them. He had to. He saw Catherine holding Alison in her arms, cradling her like a child. She looked like she was asleep. John Henry was there as well. They would be the next through the TDE.

But where John Connor was going only one would follow.

The red 'Initiate' button blinked under his fist. He pressed it down will all his strength, and the machine came to life.

John rushed back to the pad and took Cameron in his arms. He peeled back her scalp and slipped the chip into the CPU port, feeling the satisfying click as it slid into place. He had no idea when she would wake up - maybe two minutes, maybe ten, maybe _never._

But when she did, if she did, he would be the first thing she would see.

As the displacement field began to take shape, John pulled her closer to him until her face was buried against his chest. The fighting was intense down below. Soon it would all be gone. Soon it would all be in his past, or locked in a future that had never actually happened. This was the nature of time travel.

Sound faded, and the world around him ground to a halt. Things became transparent - John could see through the bubble, the machinery, the rock, the metal railing, he could see through everything like he was looking at the world through wax paper. James was locked in mortal combat with the other machine, one big fist on its way around to what would certainly be a titanic blow. Catherine cradled Alison in her arms both of them at rest and almost contemplative. The scene was still and eerie.

Slowly life crept back into this canvas. John saw James connect in slow motion, sending his opponent flying off in some unseen direction. The scene picked up speed until the action became a blur. He was moving forward in time - was this right?

_Oh Jesus, what have I done?_

It ended in a flash of white light, and the room was exposed to the open air. Time was moving forward so quickly now the sun became a blur across the sky, bending into a single yellow arc and making the seasons blend into one continuous movement. The earth was living and breathing below him and John could see all of this, day and night, sun and moon and stars, everything. Still, he accelerated along the timeline to some point unknown.

He looked above his head and watched the sky change. The stars were moving. He was seeing thousands of years pass before him, tens of thousands perhaps. The constellations broke apart. First Orion, and then Scorpio lost its shape and finally the big bear broke off at the handle. As the sky continued to change the world below him became barren and alien. Just where the hell was he going? John pulled his woman closer to him and whispered in her ear, unsure if she could hear and desperately wishing she would return his embrace.

"My God Cameron, I wish you could see this..."

If she did hear him she gave no signal. Her body remained cold and still against him, and John was left to face the end of the world alone and in silence.

When next he looked up he beheld a sight that struck him with terror, shaking his soul down to its foundation. The sun had grown tremendous in the sky, red as blood and furious with energy. Though he could not feel or hear anything, John was certain that outside the world was melting. He could imagine the heat coming off this huge sphere, even if he could not reach out and touch it.

In a flash, the sun shrank back to a point and then exploded in a canvas of a million colors. Whips of red ether spun through space, touching the earth and vaporizing rock and mountain and eventually eroding the very core of the planet. Below him he had seen the real judgment day, the real end of all things to come. It was a sight he would never forget.

Still, the universe did not become quiet. Time continued to accelerate and he saw stars fly past him at breakneck speed. Galaxies collided and danced around one another like rain clouds might, stringing a trail of stars across hundreds of thousands of light years. John looked at the universe as it lived and died before him and took in everything, every color, every shape, all of it. He was truly going where he had never imagined. He knew in his heart of hearts that what he was seeing was beyond his comprehension.

Looking down he realized that he and Cameron were now nude. He didn't remember loosing the clothing; it had just simply vanished without warning. He thought she felt slightly warmer now, though it may have only been his body heat rubbing off on her.

Time had accelerated to such a pace that light itself became visible and threadlike. John thought he could reach out and grasp a single tendril of starlight, some of the last the universe would see. The canvas grew black and distant as stars died around him. Soon, every last star would wink from existence and he would be left with

The Void.

He watched as the universe died. John was left in complete darkness now and was quite sure that something had gone terribly wrong. He would be left here, a tiny cinder floating in an endless empty space, the last remains of the human race and quite possibly any life in the cosmos. He looked in every direction and saw nothing - the void was complete. No source of light reached his eyes and in this place no things lived or breathed or thought.

Yet even there hope would not die. As the darkness intruded upon his heart and mind, he felt the woman in his arms warm suddenly as if some switch had been flipped. He didn't know how long he had been in this bubble but it couldn't be more than a few minutes. Again she stirred. Something, or someone, else lived here after all.

And then he could see her face, illuminated by a violent, white light that erupted from all around him. Where there had been only the deepest black now the world was flooded with colors so brilliant and intense he had to shield his eyes and even then it burned through him. When he looked next he saw the primordial universe swirling with huge blue stars that bulged and popped like bubbles on a pond set against a background of blinding light and churning primordial gas.

The activity was so rapid and uncontrolled that it became impossible to focus on any one thing. John knew what he was seeing - the beginning. The birth of the universe. He had just seen the end of the world and now he was certain that he would see it remade right before his eyes. As time hurled forward, order emerged. Stars clustered into galaxies and dust coalesced into planets. The sky and the universe were alive with light and life.

John could see time begin to slow. It was almost imperceptible at first but it was there. Below him there was a huge mass of swirling dust backlit by a young spiral cloud of stars. The dusty center of this mass was lit by a faint glow which slowly began to brighten until finally it burst into life, almost as if someone had willed it into existence. The dust around the star was blown back and what was left began to form tiny spheres that whirled around the sun like the hands on some mad clock. They collided and merged, and some were thrown from their orbits into the void, never to be seen or heard from again.

Within his mind John knew this was home. He was seeing Earth and its siblings and their parent star come together in a celestial ballet. Time continued to slow and he could see the familiar trappings of a planet that might hold life. There was rain for what must have been thousands or millions of years, a constant downpour that might have been biblical if it had not been so ancient and real. There were mountains and continents and all at once something else.

Suddenly on this rocky, barren place there was life.

The planet began to change in ways both familiar and alien. The world changed from blue to blue-green as life spread across its face, growing into great swaths of algae and forest that eventually covered every space he could see. All forms of life - some he had seen in history books and some which were too bizarre to imagine - morphed into and then faded from existence. He was getting close to his destination.

_This may work after all_, he thought to himself.

As if sensing that their final destination was near, Cameron continued to stir. John took his eyes from the world for a moment and looked down to her. She was still asleep or at least at rest. Hey eyes were closed but she began to move as a person might. Her fingers curled and her lips parted in such a way that John felt himself turn slightly red. He went over the likely scenarios in his head. She would wake up, but then what? The possibilities were many but his conversations with John Henry coupled with his own burgeoning understanding of the woman who lay in his arms had settled him on a likely few.

Time was slowing outside. In the little time John had looked away the Egyptian empire had risen and been broken, and the same was said for the Greeks and Romans. Now there was light, not from the stars overhead but from streetlamps and what he thought might have been headlights. The world slowed and John felt a wave of disorientation, as if he were stepping out of a roller coaster. The bubble came to rest in some anonymous clearing nowhere near anything as far as he could tell. There were no roads and no people that he could see. They appeared to be mercifully far from civilization.

As the displacement bubble faded it left a smoking glass crater. The ground felt hot under his feet and the familiar smell of electric fire reached him. It was light out and they had come to rest in some sort of grove where the brush was thick and dry, and small fire burned from their arrival.

As if on cue, Cameron stirred again. This time the spasm was more pronounced, running down her whole body. John thought he heard a sound escape her lips and he could see her eyelids flexing and straining. He looked around and noticed the bubble had left quite a mess - if there were anyone nearby they were bound to see something, whether it be the smoke and small brush fires or the blue lightning and two nude time travelers.

Cameron was locked in a world of pure sensation. What she experienced made hardly any sense - the images were coming far too fast. There was sound too, and touch, every kind of sensation she was allowed to have. There were names and faces, all crushed together into a stream of thought. Trying to pluck one up and read from it was like trying to catch a single drop of water in a torrent. Her body was operating without her input as systems and mechanisms came on line for the first time in ages. Her journey to this moment had taken years, longer than she would ever remember.

Those secrets and more passed through her neural network, working their way into her consciousness. She was very much in a dream state, unable to take control of what was happening. Without realizing it she was reliving every memory she ever had, every sensation and emotion in those few seconds since her CPU had come online.

Within the torrent there was one face that stood out from all the others, and one name that come up again and again. In her mind, every thought produced a sensation and this one came over and over. It was not at all unpleasant, in fact it was comforting and affirming. Through these sensations her memories spoke their own language and this one word kept appearing like a distant beacon flashing against a bed of midnight. She so wished to grasp the thought, to look at it and know who this was and what they meant. There was no hope for pulling anything from the chaos so she settled for watching it all go by, perhaps several lifetimes of memories being swept away. To her they may be lost forever.

Or maybe just for now.

When she regained control of her facilities the first thing she noticed was a feeling of warmth, and a sensation of being held, tightly. She felt something fundamental - maybe sadness or loss but for the life of her couldn't remember why. What had just happened - the torrent of thought and emotion - was no more in her mind than what she had done the previous day. In fact she could no more recall yesterday than she could recall anything.

Her eyes snapped open as she realized she could remember nothing. Reaching down into her mind, where she was sure a lifetime of thoughts and experiences should lie for her recollection she found only a blank slate. Her lips were open and she took in a quick breath and for the first time she realized where she was. Suspended slightly above the ground, in the arms of a young man or boy with a concerned look on his face. There was a flare within her, as if something had tried to come up from the depths. This faded quickly, and she was alone with him.

Without thinking Cameron pushed on his chest and was only mildly surprised when he let her go. She was much more surprised, shocked even, to find that this strange man was completely nude. Her eyes wandered over him and for the first time she felt fear, the sensation of not knowing. Had this man done something to her? His face was strangely alluring though and she didn't feel threatened or intimidated.

John was shocked by her sudden revival. As her eyes opened her body seemed to come to life on its own. She moved in his arms and was now awake, as if she had never really been gone. When she pushed against him he reacted out of reflex and let her slide to the ground. He noticed her eyes wandering over him and for the first time he did the same. Cameron was truly a beauty, but this state would cause more trouble than it was worth. He saw her fear and put his hands up where she could see them.

"Cameron? Are you alright?"

For a moment she didn't answer and John thought she may not have understood.

"Cameron?" He reached out to her only slightly and felt a twinge of fear.

"Who are you?" She whispered, covering herself.

John closed his eyes and swallowed. "I'm John." He said.

She seemed to take this in the same way one might understand you telling them what time it was. "I see." She said.

"Cameron, do you remember anything?"

Again she felt the needle in her mind. She tried to think, to where she had felt this before. She was feeling something else now - acute fear.

"I don't...know who you're talking about."

John felt his heart sink, literally in his chest. Understanding that she would not be herself and seeing it for himself were two different things, it seemed.

"I'm talking about you. You're Cameron, okay? You don't remember your name?"

Again, she shook her head. "I don't know that name, and I don't know you." Her voice fell a notch and John could see her eyes set on his.

He backed off just slightly, keeping his hands where she could see them. "That's fine, that's okay. I thought that might happen."

"What?" She asked. "What did you do to me? Did you hurt me?" She said accusingly.

"No! No, I didn't, I wouldn't ever...look, just feel your temple. You hit your head, okay? There's blood there. Just feel your head, right behind your eye." He said.

Cameron did as he asked, feeling a strong compulsion to obey. She wondered where it came from but soon found he was telling the truth - or at least part of it. She was bleeding slightly from a wound. Her fingers followed it up from her temple to a point on the back of her scalp, following the gash along the way.

"I hit my head? I don't remember any -"

She stopped in mid sentence, her body frozen in time. John waited for a moment before coming closer to her. When he did, he placed on hand on her wrist, still held near her temple. He tried to pull on it but her body resisted. She may have forgotten who she was, but nothing would ever change what she was. He would need a truck to unhinge her frozen joints.

He waved his hand in front of her face. At first there was nothing, as if she had literally stopped in that moment. Her eyes were fixed on some distant point, unseeing and unmoving. Her expression was one of frozen thought.

But Cameron did see and she did feel, though not the sensations of sitting on the warm earth, or the feeling of a young man with his hands on hers, trying to coax her back to life. She felt cold and centered, as if all of the variables of her existence had been burned down to a single, overriding request.

When she opened her eyes she saw the man called John. She felt her hand snap out to his neck and take hold. John looked surprised but she didn't understand why - this was the way it was supposed to be, wasn't it? He was nude and so was she. Had she seduced him? Had John Connor really fallen for such a trick? It didn't matter, soon it would all be over and John Connor would be here, left to rot in this open glade.

(*****)

Nathan Bridger and his brother Harvey were out on a piece of narrow highway between Reno, Nevada and the California border. It was a Sunday morning and they were driving, like they did sometimes when his wife Laurel was at church. Nathan needed a good days rest after driving a squad car all week and Harvey wasn't much of a churchgoer, though it may have done them both some good.

They talked about politics, the weather and the Dodgers. Harvey said it wasn't right - they belonged in Brooklyn and he'd never call them the Los Angeles Dodgers, not even if Saint Peter himself was wearing a god-damned blue and white baseball cap. These feelings and more found expression when the brothers were alone. They had spent all of their childhood together but now the rigors of adulthood were beginning to put a strain on the two boys. Harvey was the younger and always in his brothers shadow. Nathan, or just Nate as it usually was, was easygoing and a pretty good guy if you asked the right folks.

Whatever they had been talking about that Sunday morning at around eleven was quickly forgotten as the crested a curved hill and saw blue strands of lightening on a day as clear and as calm as any they could remember. Nathan pounded the brake as hard as he could, straining himself as the car came to a halt.

Up ahead, beyond their vision there was smoke and fire. The lightning was gone but it had been there, and for more than just a few seconds too. They shared a glance that was at the same time nervous and excited.

Harvey got out of the car and checked his pocket, tapping his left thigh out of habit. "God, did you see that? Wonder what the hell that was." He walked to the edge of the road and put his hands on his hips, looking down off the corner of the road.

Nathan shook his head. Harvey was interested in anything out of the ordinary but this may actually be something dangerous. The light show was probably nothing and he wouldn't be surprised if half the town was dark when they got back from their little day-vacation. He followed Harvey to the road edge where it tilted into a ravine heavy with brush and sharp rocks. There was a veil of smoke blocking their view.

"I can't see shit, come on." Harvey said.

"Where are you going Harvey? Don't tell me you're going down there."

"What does it look like?" He was already halfway down the hill when he called back, trying to keep his footing. Nathan couldn't help but shake his head again and resign himself to following his brother down there. God knows what else there might be, hidden from sight. He'd hate to have to explain to mom that he let something happen to his little brother but the kid did have a knack for stirring up the shit. The last thing he needed was Harvey getting excited – particularly with that new .38 special he was carrying around. As quickly as he could, Nathan followed down the hill.

Nathan was the first to see it, but Harvey was the first to say anything. The elder brother was sort of mesmerized by what he was seeing. It was bizarre in a way that his mind would not allow. He stepped into a clearing only a few meters across where the vegetation was burned away and the ground was like charred glass. Smoke still curled up from the dirt when Harvey stumbled in next to him.

"Whoa there Nathan, what have you got here?" Harvey said, and followed almost immediately with "Just what the hell happened here? Nathan?"

"Shut up! I think I hear something." He motioned with one hand. "I don't know what happened here but I think I see something down there. Look."

(*****)

As Cameron laid her hands on him another voice shouted out, this one for more powerful than the last. She realized that this was her as well - she was hearing herself literally screaming inside her head. The words didn't make sense, their language, their order, it was gibberish but Cameron could sense the anger and the terror. It seemed to grow stronger as her grip on Johns neck tightened.

John registered only mild surprise at her assault. This had been a possibility all along, he knew. There could be worse fates than this, having your neck snapped like a twig by this woman. Cameron wrapped her hand around his windpipe and he braced himself for the pressure that would come next, the crushing, unforgiving grip of the single-minded machine.

It never came.

Somehow Cameron stayed her hand. Fate smiled on both of them, surely saving John for some more other encounter not yet foretold. Her grip tightened down, but only to the point where it was uncomfortable. She stopped there and her face changed expression from the terminal blank stare to one of confusion and fear. John placed his hand on her wrist and tried to move her but found her strength had never left her arm.

"What's happening to me?" She said, her voice strained. "I…I can't stop this."

John put his hand on her shoulder, brushing past her left flank. He centered his vision on hers and for the first time in so many days or weeks he looked into her eyes. They were her eyes, so dark and telling for a moment the situation slipped away from him. He felt her grip loosen and she spoke to him once again.

"John, run."

He did, without looking back.

Seconds later Cameron was crashing after him through the underbrush. She was faster than him and didn't mind being slashed by the thorny plants that made a narrow corridor to nowhere. The gap between them closed quickly and John was almost certain that he would feel her on his back in three strides, maybe less. He braced himself once again, readying himself to dive forward as he felt her grip on him. It was hopeless, though. She was a machine and he was just a man out of time.

Once again there was no final attack. John heard a crash behind him and when he thought he might be in for it, there was nothing else. She had stopped. He dared to turn around just to look over his shoulder and saw her nude form sprawled out across the turf. She was bleeding from a half a dozen wounds on her legs and hips but she was still, as if she had been gunned down.

John hated himself for what he was about to do. He took a chance and went back and crouched by her, trying to find the seam in her scalp where her CPU port would be hidden. He nearly had it when he heard something else coming down through the brush and his heart dropped. There were people here, after all.

Harvey saw the boy crouching over her naked form and didn't waste any time. He hated perverts and their entire ilk and had always imagined a moment like this, where he could get the drop on one of them and crush him like a bug. He was short, squat and powerful and he knew the little runt didn't have an ounce of fight in him. Nathan could tend to the girl. He was going to break this little son-of-a-bitch in half.

John moved with the ease of a football player dodging an incoming tackle. Harvey may have been big but like a lot of big guys once he got a head of steam there was no way in hell he could change his direction. Harvey looked perplexed as he sailed by John who didn't seem to give him another thought. He did a half-way duck, when he came back up his mouth was full of grit and grass.

"Harvey, just hang on, alright? God dammit Harvey!" Nathan yelled as loud as he could. He didn't warn the boy - Nathan had a pretty good idea what was going on here but he wasn't ready to hurt anyone. His voice was enough though and he saw Harvey pull the revolver from his pocket and try to aim it.

By this time John realized just how serious the situation was. He looked like a criminal, and with Cameron in god knows what state, they were all vulnerable. If she woke up again and was in a foul mood they would all be as good as dead. He heard the other one - the one not called Harvey - yelling at this one and he turned just in time to see the fireplug pull a gun. It was a snub-nosed pistol and John saw his hand shake. He knew he would probably miss the first shot and if he did he could close the gap. But if he didn't...

Bang!

There was a zing! And John heard the bullet bounce around the trees behind him. Everyone that was awake ducked and John threw his hands up in the air. The last thing he need was to get shot by some out for blood amateur. The pistol was still shaking, but the fireplug had steadied his hand.

"Harvey put the fucking gun down! Are you trying to kill someone?"

A light seemed to go off in Harvey's mind and he lowered the barrel of the pistol only to raise it again. He took his hand off the trigger, but kept it leveled at the boy. "Just hold on there son, don't move." His voice was as calm and measured as he could make it.

"Yeah I got it, no problem." John said.

"That's right. Nathan, get down here and put the cuffs on this kid."

"You're not the fucking cop Harvey so put that thing down. I swear to god that ricochet came within three feet of my head. Jesus, sometimes I wonder what you're thinking." He had indeed taken out his cuffs and brandished them at his own brother. "I should be putting these on you. Hold still kid." He wrapped one around Johns wrist, then the other. John kept his eyes on Cameron and was rewarded with another stir – she was getting up.

Cameron felt better now, somehow she felt as if the worst had passed. She got up to her knees and waited for something to happen – the voice, the gibberish language, the feeling she had earlier, but nothing came. She felt normal, which at this moment was just as strange.

Harvey took off his jacket and handed it to the girl. "Are you alright miss?" He threw it over her shoulders. "Can you tell me your name?"

She studied his face. She looked at John and saw his hands were bound. Whatever the two of them were doing before it was over now. She ran her hand up to her temple and felt the blood there, touching the gash along her scalp.

"My name is Cameron." She said, looking at John. She saw what she knew was relief pass over his face as she spoke. "That's John."

Harvey helped her to her feet, trying not to notice her state of dress – he found it damned hard to keep his eyes off of her and this was not at all lost on John or his brother. Cameron didn't seem to notice, though.

"Okay Cameron, can you tell me what the two of you were doing out here?" Harvey asked.

She didn't know. "I don't know."

Harvey shot John a look. "Alright, look lets all get back to town and we'll shake this out. Come on, my brothers car is back up the hill."

The walk back of the hill was an unpleasant one. John was thoroughly humiliated. They had given Cameron a jacket, two of them in fact but they had left John to hike in his birthday suit. He had no choice at this point, but his spirits brightened somewhat when they reached the road and he saw the vehicle. It was painted tan, with big chrome wheels and John knew that the whitewall tires were brand new. When they got to the car John sat down in the back seat along with Harvey, who still had his gun but now looked far less likely to use it. Cameron and Nathan sat in front. Between them there was a newspaper.

_**FIGHTING AT THE BEACHHEAD – MERCS INVADE CUBA**_

The date was April 18th, 1961.


	2. Chapter 2

_Authors note:_

_This chapter took quite a while to turn out, and for a lot of reasons. Number 1, I'm a lazy bastard. Number 2, I also happen to be a very busy lazy bastard. Now imagine those two things together and you can see where I am coming from. The third is of a cause since it happened late in production but no less important, because it resulted in a chapter that was entirely different than the one I had originally written. I basically rewrote this in one night and posted it without a very thorough review. Please note any spelling, grammar or logic errors and I'll correct them. Unless they are the logic ones. Further chapters should be coming out quite a bit faster, and I'm hoping to wrap this entire story up by April/May (which means June/July). Please R&R!_

(*****)

Cameron sat upright in bed, listening to the sounds of the night drift in through her open window. She could hear the crickets and the sound of swing music from somewhere far away. She could hear the wind blow through the grass and the quiver of the trees, and she could hear Nathan and Laurel in the next room. Their breathing was deep, rhythmic and steady. They had been asleep for three hours, since just after sundown.

For what must have been the tenth time that night, Cameron threw the covers off of her legs and stood up, taking long strides to the window and throwing it wide open. She didn't feel tired, but she knew she had to sleep. It was _night_, and that was what you did at _night_. She listened to the sound of her own breathing, measuring it against the old couple. Hers was different. Theirs was deep and meaningful, as if their lives depended on their next breath. Cameron had watched the clock, holding her breath for fifteen minutes. Her life, apparently, did not.

But that wasn't the worst.

When she closed her eyes, which she did now, spreading her arms out wide and feeling the cool air wrap around them, she could hear other things, which she was fairly certain now that no one else could. She could hear herself somewhere deep in her head. In fact, she was certain now that there was more than one voice contained within her. She could see things on the inside of her eyes, vivid, real things that vanished when there was even the slightest light from outside. They were words, written in a language that she didn't understand but that she could feel all the same.

She pulled her arms back to her sides, wrapping them around her chest tightly, feeling the warmth of her own body. Once again she retreated to the bed, hoping rest might overtake her but knowing somehow that she would not sleep this night, and if things kept on like this she may never again.

So the minutes passed into half hours and then hours, and that first night in Laurel and Nathan's guest bedroom passed without Cameron sleeping a wink. When the sun came up the next morning she was again at the window, arms around her chest, trying to recapture that first sensation of being held, floating in space. That thought and others like it got her through the night but she knew would not get her through another.

(*****)

"Russians, Harvey? Really?" Nathan said.

Harvey nodded vigorously. "Well hell yes! Come on, don't you remember what they were saying about agents on the west coast? And you saw –"

"I don't know what I saw down there, and neither do you!"

"Well that's why I'm going down there to take another look."

"Like hell. You ain't going anywhere near there."

"You gonna stop me Nate? How do you figure?"

He relented only for a second, but that was enough. "Well…"

"Yeah that's what I thought." Harvey reached into his back pocket and took out a wad of tobacco and stuffed it under his lip. His brother cringed at the sight of it.

"You just keep yourself under control. I'd hate to have to bust my own brother."

Harvey smiled his big, broad grin. Nate hated when he looked like that. "You don't have to worry about it. I called the F.B.I."

Nate's jaw dropped nearly to the floor. He was surprised, but only externally. On the inside he knew that Harvey had been waiting for this his whole life, for a moment where he could shine in the lights of authority even if was in the tight confines of the interrogation room.

"You did what?"

"I called the F.B.I. office in Las Vegas. They said they'd send someone up. I got to go back to the office, I need to be there when he gets in to town." Harvey saw the look on his brother's face and was more than mildly pleased. "Relax, they'll just ask the kids some questions. I'm sure it'll all work out for the best, for all of us."

Harvey got into his car without another word, only flicking his wrist to show that he was leaving. Nate just stood there in the dust and wondered what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

They had let John cool off in local lockup over night but that was only because Harvey insisted. Nathan had let far worse chumps go, and by his count this was all some kind of colossal misunderstanding. He had figured on letting them both go, giving them twenty dollars and sending them to Reno or somewhere else far away from here. Instead, he would have to hold onto them for a while. He let this ruminate as he dialed his wife.

She picked up on the second ring and immediately knew why he was calling. "Of course, she's doing quite well. She wants to know where John is. Are you still keeping that young man there with you?" She said after his introduction.

Nathan nodded as if it would travel through the phone. "Yes, yes I've got him here. I was going to let him go but that brother of mine went and did something crazy."

Laurel took in a breath. "He didn't beat him up did he? Oh for the love of – Nathan, the girl swears up and down he didn't do anything!"

"I know dammit, just listen. Harvey called the F.B.I. They'll be here in a day, probably tomorrow morning. Look, I don't think I have any choice but to leave him here again over night." Laurel came as close as she ever would to swearing on the other end of the line, and her man took note. "I know, I know it's fouled up real bad. But you know Harvey."

"I know your brother. You need to keep control of him Nate or someone is going to get hurt and I hope to god it isn't one of us. Why is he doing this?" She said.

There were a lot of answers to that, but mostly Nate knew it was some mixture of pride and resentment mixing in the veins of his younger brother. Nate was the cop, Nate was the big brother, and Harvey had just been himself. No one took it harder than him.

In the end Nate just chewed his lip. "I don't know."

"Well, I'll tell Cameron what's going on but I don't think she'll be happy. She seems like she's been through an awful lot."

"She'll have to go through a little more." Nate was finished with the conversation and said a short goodbye, then hung up. "They both will."

Nathan stood for a moment with his hand on the switch and the receiver still pressed against his face. He was genuinely a man of two minds about this whole thing. On the one hand, he had caught John and Cameron at some kind of game – he didn't know what. He knew kids on the west coast were doing drugs and probably a hell of a lot else he didn't know about. Being Russian spies wasn't on his list, but there were some other perhaps even more heinous crimes that were.

Yet none of them seemed to fit the young man and his beautiful companion. She seemed concerned about him, more so than he for himself. John was slick, a real smart guy. Nathan found himself thinking that the man locked in that cell reminded him of himself in years long since past.

"Damn, I need a smoke." He said to no one in particular as he stepped out the door, into the warm Nevada morning.

Initially he hadn't been troubled by the whole thing – the lockup seemed natural, a good way to let the boy know who he was dealing with and dispel any illusions that this one street town was going to just roll over and let some idiot run roughshod over its people and the local law.

Nate wished it had stayed that way.

He'd taken Cameron to his home as soon as they returned from their drive. The way he saw it, she was very likely a victim in all this and he wasn't going to make her a victim again, this time of the incarceration system. He dropped Cameron off at his house around three yesterday afternoon, making sure that his wife knew the story. It was all very civilized and small-town like, and that fit Carver just fine.

Nathan had made a career of watching people react – and you could tell a lot about two people by how they reacted to one another. As he watched Cameron get out of the car he noticed the two of them share a long gaze – one of confusion and concern that seemed genuine. At the time, he let it go but the more he thought about it the more it puzzled him. Cameron had hardly said a word and both he and his brother got the feeling that there was more likely something off with her than with John.

Nathan needed to figure this out, and if there was any hope of doing so it would be through the girl. John was feeding him info, but Nathan had no idea if it was true. The part of him good at that sort of thing was telling him there were lies in the truth, or maybe the other way around but if John was lying his craft was masterful, and Nathan had not yet caught him in the act. He would go home, to her. His Bonneville was out front baking in the sun, and a good bit of driving would calm him down.

But before he left...

"John. You awake?" Nathan said, walking into the holding room.

John was laid out on the cot, his arm up over his head. He looked somehow at ease, and that didn't set well with Nathan.

"I'm up, have been most of the night."

"Look son, I know you've been through something and you're not being totally straight with me, but I'm not sure any crime has been comitted."

John sat up. "So you going to let me go?"

"Well, I thought about it but then my brother went and called the Feds on you. Now, if there's anything you want to tell me. Your name for starters, because I know it isn't John Baum."

"You said he called the F.B.I.?"

Nathan just nodded.

John looked him down. Like Nathan, there was no ill will inside the cell either. It was all just a misunderstanding. Still, with no identities god knows what would happen to them.

"I've told you just about everything I can. I'm sorry, but thats all there is."

Nathan shrugged. "Okay then, I guess you'll have to talk to whatever spook or agent they send up here. My guess is they're probably on their way, if they're coming at all. I'm going to step out of the office - don't go anywhere okay Mr. Baum?"

John just smiled and nodded, settling back down on the cot.

When he arrived home, Cameron was in the front room in a summer dress that his wife had worn earlier in her life, before she started to 'puff up' as she liked to put it. Cameron was taller, so it only came down to just below her knee, but otherwise it was a good fit. She looked at him as he came in, taking off his boots at the door.

"Where is John?" She asked him, directly. Her gaze locked onto his in a way that sent his eyes searching for something less firm and demanding.

He took a moment to prepare his response. "He's still at my office. I need - well the thing is there's been a snag."

"A snag? I don't understand."

"Some other folks want to talk with him. You might have to stay here another night, Laurel and I don't mind."

Cameron turned her head just a little, keeping her eyes on his. "I see."

When she didn't break her gaze, Nathan cleared his throat and stepped into the kitchen where his wife was mincing meat near the sink.

Nate and Laurel had been married a long time, but not so long that when Nathan curled his arms around her waist that she didn't appreciate it. She leaned back into him and spoke, because she knew he was listening.

"You're going to have to do something with that brother of yours Nathan. I just don't think I can stand him doing this to you."

"Doing what?" He said.

"Going over your head!"

"Oh, that…" He started to withdraw but felt her hands hold him at the wrists.

"You go out there and talk to her, I mean really say something to her. I'll tell you that she's about as Russian as your Pontiac."

Nathan sighed, as was his custom when being taken advantage of or compromised and she knew that he would do as she suggested.

Cameron was back to staring out the window when he came in. He could have sworn that she was watching him out of the corner of her eye, even from the moment he came into the house. Her eyes took long gazes at things, at people. At him. They stayed with you.

She had indeed been not only watching Nathan but listening to him as well. She heard everything Laurel said to him, and she heard his diminished reply. Her attention had been split between the conversation in the kitchen and the movements of a boy across the street playing around the overgrowth of an aged steel outbuilding, climbing on the stacked oil drums and discarded tires until he reached the roof. Only when he disappeared from sight did she turn her attention to Nathan, who was now sitting across a small space from her with his arms folded under his chest.

"So." He said.

"So. Laurel wanted you to talk to me." She said.

He nodded almost imperceptibly. "You heard that?"

"I heard that."

"Well that's good, I suppose."

"Why?"

He didn't really know. "Just because…well we need to talk."

This time Cameron was silent, but she tilted her head to one side just slightly keeping him locked under her gaze.

"Cameron…"

"Yes?"

"That is your name, isn't it?"

For the second time since she had met this man, he asked that question. For all she knew she was Cameron _someone_. The name meant nothing and everything at once. It wasn't simply a designation, it was what John called her.

"That's what John said. Have you asked him?"

"Well I -." He began.

"Can you take me to him?"

"I'm afraid not. Look Cameron, I'm just trying to do my job, it can be hard on people sometimes." He took a moment to compose the next question in his head before asking it. "Why is it that you need to speak to him? What business do you have with him." Besides the obvious running around naked business, and Nathan wasn't so old fashioned he didn't know where that led to.

Cameron had to think as well. "I need to ask him some questions. There are things he can tell me."

"Such as?"

"Why I don't sleep."

"Come again?"

She didn't reply, still staring out the window. Her stillness was amazing, Nathan didn't think she had moved anything but her head since he came in.

"If you can't tell me about it then that's okay, but John is going to have to talk with someone else before he can get back to you."

This did get her attention, though Nathan absolutely did not like the gaze that came from her as she spoke. Cameron's very presence seemed to unsettle him. He wished more and more to send her on her way.

"Thank you for explaining."

Harvey didn't care for the way she said that. "What the hell were you and John doing out there?" He said.

She felt something that she would later register as annoyance then, a little white blip on her consciousness. What they were doing… If they had asked her what time of day it was, she could tell him (it was twelve thirteen and a bit after) or if he had asked what the weather was like, she could say it was hot (ninety three degrees in the shade today) but those weren't questions Nathan needed to know. She needed to know, too, but the only one that could fill that void was downtown, in lockup.

Cameron closed her hands without thinking about it. "I don't know what we were doing. I know that I can't remember what happened before John woke me up, and that he looked worried, like you do now. But it was different. He was afraid too."

"Afraid that he had hurt you?"

"No." Cameron said. "Afraid I might hurt him." She had hit upon the realization after some thought. John had been afraid, she could read his face the same way she could read the temperature outside. These were things she knew, intrinsically, like the value of a lump of gold.

"Well I don't think there was much chance in that."

"Why did he run from me?"

This caught Nathan off guard just long enough for the conversation to break down. Cameron was not longer listening to him at all – she had turned her head to the window. The boy on the roof was gone.

"Do you know the boy across the street?" She asked.

"Yes, Mitch…why?"

Cameron rose to her feet and flattened one palm against the warm glass. "Because he isn't on the roof anymore."

"What do you mean? What would make you say something like that?" Now he was the one on his feet, alarmed by her complete change in engagement.

"He was on the roof of the shed. I heard something and now I don't see him."

"You heard? What are you talking about?" By the time he finished his sentence Cameron had gracefully lifted herself from the chair was moved to the door. Nathan reached to her arm and took hold of it, being firm with her but trying not to hurt her. The last thing he wanted was to hurt the poor girl, god knew that much. What happened next surprised him, and Laurel who had been watching and listening from the kitchen.

Cameron's hand was on his fast and at first Nathan thought she was going to slap him, but instead she just took a hold of him and pinched his wrist just the right way, just enough to make his bones hurt. Cameron slipped from his grip without so much as looking at him and was out the door, as if she could have left at any time.

"What are you standing there for? Go get her!" Laurel scolded him.

Nathan took a moment, feeling his arm where Cameron had touched him. Her grip had left an iron ring around his wrist where he was sure there would be a bruise, and when he pulled her arm she hadn't flinched. It was like he never even touched her.

"What the hell was that?" He whispered, striding out the door after her.

The shed across the street had been built by a pair of brothers a generation before, and when Mitch stepped on the flimsy roof in just the right way he had felt the steel sheet give way underneath him. His first thought was one of surprise, but then again he shouldn't be surprised. He knew the roof wasn't solid (his dad called it 'wonky' every time he told the boy not to go climbing again.) When Mitch hit the ground his leg buckled and just before he screamed out in pain, he swore to himself he wouldn't go doing anything dumb like that again.

Promises, promises as his father would say.

Cameron had heard the roof crumple well before she heard the boy crying out, but the scream was unmistakable. Her legs carried her as fast as she wanted to go, which in this case was pretty damned fast. She pumped her arms and felt the wind rush past her ears and just knew that she would have to do this again, even if she had nowhere to go.

Nathan arrived in time to see Cameron throwing off a sheet of roofing tile like it was balsa wood, one handed while the held aloft a roofing timber. The boy's leg was broken but for a moment he couldn't take his eyes off the tiny girl in front of him. The thick slab of rotten wood must have weighed a hundred pounds and she had it over her head, one handed forming a triangle between herself and the wall where the timber was still bound with heavy spikes. Before reaching down the get the boy, she jammed the timber back into the joist space, smashing it into place. It wouldn't hold forever, but it would do long enough.

"Laurel call the Doc, Mitch's hurt himself." Nathan said as soon as they were back across the street. Cameron followed him in through the door, bearing Nathan along in her arms.

"He has a compound fracture of the left tibia, this will need to be set." Cameron said.

Laurel stepped into the room just long enough to see what had happened and took a sharp breath before running to the phone. "Oh my god…"

"Not by you."

Cameron still held the boy in her arms. "No, by a doctor. Not by me."

"That's right."

"Clear the table."

"Oh, right."

She rested the boy on the table, settling him in the best she could. The fracture was severe and she knew that it would take many months to recuperate, if it healed fully at all. Though it didn't show on her face, Cameron had been thinking ever since those moments near dawn.

"I need to speak with you Nathan."

Nathan was hearing a million things at once - his wife half-screaming into the telephone, Mitch right beside him, fully screaming as Cameron held him on the table and his own thoughts streaming through his brain faster than he could register and act on them. He didn't know Cameron was speaking to him until she placed her hand on his.

"I need to speak to you."

"Right now?" He said.

"Yes, this is very important."

His fifty year old hand felt limp in her grip and nodded. "Go on then."

"I need you to take me to John."

Nathan protested. "Now look, you don't even know what he did to you. I know you must feel like he's your man, but guys like him are a dime a dozen little girl."

She didn't blink, only squeezing his hand more tightly. "I know what you think and it isn't true. John never hurt me, if anything it was the other way around. I'll ask you again to take me to him."

Nathan reached for her hand, struggling against her iron grip as his eyes flashed up to her face, and then back to the kitchen.

"Do not call to her. Will you do as I say?"

"Listen girlie..." He struggled to form the words. "I would, you know I would, but I'm a man of the law and I have to keep you safe, that's my job. I don't think he's good for you."

Cameron thought this over and felt a string of emotions pass through her. Nathan was a good man, and she had no desire to hurt him.

"Nathan, which is a higher priority, my safety or the safety of your wife and this child?" She found herself saying these words, lowering her voice in such a way that only hours ago she could not imagine, and she meant every word of it. "I have helped this boy in an act of good faith, and now I am asking the same in return. Please do as I say."

This time the fight went out of him, and Cameron saw it in his eyes. "Alright, alright...just don't hurt them, please. I'll take you to him. Let's just wait until the boy gets picked up by the doc-"

"We're going now."

The last time Laurel ever saw Cameron, she was dragging her husband into their bright yellow Bonneville in the driveway just as the ambulance pulled up the street. For a moment she could only watch, but then she said a silent prayer and sent it with the young woman, and another with her husband.

(*****)

Hurried by Cameron, Nathan drove like a madman down the narrow road from his home onto the main highway that served as Main street for Carver, Nevada. His foot never left the accelerator and his eyes never left the road.

"You must hurry. It is urgent that I reach John before the F.B.I. arrives."

"The F.B.I., honey how do you even know about that? Did Laurel...?"

"No, she didn't tell me. I heard her talking on the phone about your brother. You really need to keep a closer eye on him." She said.

"Honey that is one thing we both can agree on."

She noted the time. "The drive from Las Vegas to Carver will take approximately two hours and fifteen minutes. If they have sent an agent today, he may already be there."

"And how do you even know that?"

"I read your street atlas last night. I didn't sleep."

He broke contact with the road and looked over at her. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine. Drive."

"What happens if there is an agent when we get there? What are you going to do then? You don't mess with the feds."

"I'm still working on that part." She said.

(*****)

Agent Courier was a tall man, slender with a slight hunch that was beginning to show as he aged. The freckles he once had now turned to spots of brown on a face that had seen the high hills of France and the bombed out remains of Dresden. In an age where human cruelty had aspired greatly, he found himself on the vanguard.

He found himself there still, though he was sure the trip up to a little town near the California border would turn up nothing, he would go prepared just the same. He scanned the map and judged that it would take him most of the morning to reach Carver, Nevada. Once there he would meet Harvey Warner, and impress upon him how important it was not to waste the time of the Federal Government. While the hicks were out imagining communists, he had real concerns of his own.

He packed lightly. The trip would take a day, at most. He'd stay in town or somewhere along the way. He carried enough cash to survive for a while which he stuffed into his jacket. His standard issue colt was slung under his arm. Around his ankle he had another firearm, a trusty German Luger which was slightly less standard issue but still effective. Both weapons were concealed nicely under pressed, clean shirt and slacks. The final accessory to his ensemble was a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that brought his world into a tight focus.

Five minutes later he was on the highway, the speedometer knuckling against fifty-five and the window down. God, he loved to drive.

Carver was just over two hours away, and it was going to be a beautiful day.

(*****)

Courier had arrived only a few minutes before Nathan and Cameron, but it was enough for him to get settled in with Harvey and John, the would-be Rusky spy that Nathan proudly introduced him to. The agent had seen more impressive studs in his pre-fab home.

"So you say you found him just up north of town?" He asked the younger brother, making a mental note to take the scenic route back down to Vegas when he left, which he would very soon.

"Yep, me and my brother found him and his girlfriend down in the ditch, running around naked. She had a big gash on her head, like had hit her. You know, I think you could call a few guys up and take a look at where we found them - there was a big black crater, perfect and round like nothing I've ever seen before."

"Hmmm, well I'll make a note of that." He scanned the room, as if looking for something when he found the clock. "And John, is it?"

"That's right."

"What were you doing down there? Is that where the bomber dropped you and your pretty miss?"

John just shrugged. "Look man, I think he's as crazy as you do."

Couriers thin lips formed a brief smile. "Do you? I don't know about that." He turned to Harvey and straightened his collar. "Mister...Warner, correct?"

"Yeah, Harvey P."

"Mister Warner, while I think there was certainly something happening down there, I think that it might not be what you think it was."

"Oh? How's that?"

"Well, it's something that happens in big cities, you know, when kids get together. Chances are you don't see much of it out here yourself."

Nathan could only nod in agreement. "Yeah, you may be right. I've never seen anything like that in my life, and I tell you it scared the hell out of me."

"As it should."

(*****)

"Is that your brothers car?"

"No, I don't know who's that is." They had arrived at the town jail and now Cameron scanned the building for something - anything that might be of use.

"You should stay here." She said.

"What are you going to do Cameron?"

Once again, there was no clear answer other than "I'm going to get John."

And that is precisely what she did.

She exited the car leaving Nathan there alone to ponder what hand fate had dealt this strange woman and her man, and how it had brought them to him. Though he would remember the event years afterward and contemplate it well into his old age, he would never know, never suspect the road that lay behind them. Nor could he have guessed what conclusion would be brought for them. All he saw was her, striding towards the jailhouse, her summer dress fluttering around her knees and the wind turning her hair into tiny spirals around her temples.

John saw her first and his immediate instinct was panic. She had recalled herself, somehow the demon was out of its cage. He could only think of one thing to say.

"Oh shit." His shoulders dropped as metal came calling, rapping on the door three times.

"Who is this?" Courier asked.

"It's Cameron." John backed away, looking down at his arms and legs in chains. Courier had been ready to set him free, he was this close, he could feel it.

Harvey opened the door, smiling as he saw Cameron standing there, her face almost pleasant as she placed the heel of her boot in his belly and sent him tumbling across the room. It took a moment for Courier to register what he had just seen but only a moment. He drew out his Colt in a mercury arc and drew down on the girl standing in the doorway, his iron sights settled on her chest.

"Woah there kiddo, you just hold it right where you are. You've assaulted a federal witness." Courier warned her.

"Please put the gun down. I'm here for John."

He reacted by taking his finger off the housing and cupping the trigger, a move missed by no one in the room.

Cameron measured him and the pistol. He had a gun and thought she knew she should be afraid - just like she should be tired - she was not. In fact she felt something else entirely - a sort of music that welled up inside of her and she played the notes as she felt them, closing the gap between her and Courier in three strides. His gun rang out twice, and twice Cameron was hit.

Twice she did not flinch and finally reached him, plucking the gun from his hand as she landed a swift kick to his abdomen, and a firm but humane blow to the back of the head. Courier dropped to the floor with not so much as a grunt.

She turned to John with the gun in her hand and an easy smile breaking on her face.

"Hello John."

He let out a sigh of relief as Cameron undid his restraints. "So which Cameron are you?"

Once she was done, she brought her face up to his. She was terribly close and smelled of blood and gunpowder and something else, maybe meatloaf. John swallowed hard. He heard the distinct click-click of his irons being released, and then a wave of relief washed over him.

"I was hoping you could help me with that." She held her hand out for him and without another word they were out the door, fingers entwined as they ran towards Nathan's bright yellow Pontiac.

"Nathan I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the car." Cameron said.

He took note of the pistol in her hand, and the fact that it wasn't pointed at him. His eyes were fixed on her dress on two apparently mortal wounds in the form of .45 caliber bullet holes.

"Are you alright?"

Cameron turned to John for an answer.

"She'll be fine. The car, come on!"

Nathan disposed of any valor he might have had and handed over the keys to the boy.

"What about my brother? And the agent?"

"They'll live."


	3. Chapter 3

"I'll need a new dress."

The words snapped John back to reality, distracting him from the rear view mirror and the swaying blacktop that carried them into the Nevada desert. She eyed him, still watching the road, waiting for him to respond.

"That might be a challenge without any cash."

Cameron reached behind her and pulled out a thick wad of green paper. It was mostly small bills, folded neatly into a silver clip that must have been half an inch thick. She tossed it into his lap.

"I took it from the F.B.I. agent. One hundred and thirty three dollars."

John smiled at her, but only just a little. "Think he'll miss it?"

"He might miss this more." She brandished the .45 in one hand and a spare clip in the other.

This time John couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, I think you're right. Shit..." He cracked the window and shifted in his seat. "It's hot out."

"Ninety seven degrees. Do you know where we are going?"

"North. East after that, maybe. I just wanted to put as much distance between us and them as possible before we lose the car."

"Why would we lose it?"

"Because it's a bright yellow road-boat. It'll draw attention. Plus there is blood all over the front seat."

"Sorry." She said.

"No problem, we'll have to stop somewhere but I honestly have no idea where we're going. I don't even know where we are."

"We're headed north by northwest on the 395. This road will take us as far north as Canada, or into California if we turn east at Carson City."

"Carson city - Did you read a map?" he asked.

"Yes, when I was at Nathans home. We've been traveling approximately thirty minutes at seventy miles an hour. Carson city should be no more than fifteen minutes ahead." She decided to leave off the part where she had been awake all hours of the night.

The Colt held special interest for Cameron, and she studied it closely. Almost by instinct she unloaded and checked the chamber, massaged the action and looked down the sights. It felt good in her hand and a little tingle ran up her spine as she slapped the clip back in and forced a round into firing position.

"John." She was puzzled.

He had been watching her every movement, making sure that the safety was on, the barrel downrange, or road as the case may be. If she had forgotten who she was then maybe other areas had been compromised as well. Her technique, however, was flawless. Some things just come naturally.

"Yeah Cam?"

"Have I ever used one of these before?"

At first blush the question was so absurd that he almost laughed, but instead he bit his lip and just nodded.

"Yeah, a time or two."

"It feels like a lot more than that." She put the pistol on the seat, safety on, facing away from them.

They pressed farther into the desert, past swaths of land so arid and hot that John could literally see the air rising from the dunes, rippling into a cloudless blue sky. The Pontiac didn't have air conditioning so the cabin was roasting but that seemed a small concern when paired with their flight and freedom. They rolled the windows down and howled across the blistering flats, wind beating through the cabin. In this day and age they could get lost in the dunes, go off the grid and vanish like so much history. Time, it seemed, was finally on their side.

Along the way they were silent. The big questions hung in the air, no secrets to either of them. Those answers would come in time. For now they could pretend that all of their life had been as placid and meaningless as that hundred mile stretch between a small town and the big city.

John slowed it down to fifty five as they reached the Carson city limits. They had seen hardly anyone on the road and certainly no law enforcement but the first thing they needed to do was ditch the car. John spotted a tall, glittering sign maybe a quarter of a mile inwards of the highway.

"The Silver City Motel?" Cameron said.

"Sure, why not? We'll park the car somewhere off the highway. We can't be anywhere near it when the cops find it."

"You think they will?"

"Hey, if there is one thing I know about cops it's that they'll follow while there's still blood on the ground. Even nineteen sixties cops."

They pulled off the highway and wiggled their way through the side streets where people went about their daily business, the car and its passengers wholly unnoticed. Carson city wasn't a big place, but it had everything they needed and John quickly spotted a five and dime store and pulled up, rolling up the window and leaning back into the seat to collect himself.

"Okay, you need to stay in the car and I'll go inside. Give me the money." John said.

Cameron snorted. "It's mine."

"It's _ours_." He reached over only to have her withdraw the money clip, holding out a single two dollar bill to him.

"Here you go." She said.

John shook his head. "Two dollars?" He was game. "Fine, it's your dress. We can probably get you something off the bargain shelf."

She seemed to give this slightly more thought and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. "Can I have that one back?" She asked.

He handed the small bill back to her and shook his head. "You sure you're feeling alright Cameron?"

"I'm great John. Get me something nice, okay?"

John just laughed as he turned towards the store, stuffing the twenty into his pocket. Cameron huffed at him - she meant what she said. The outfit was certainly comfortable but somehow Cameron didn't think that the flower pattern did her justice. Laurel told her it clashed with her eyes, and looking in the mirror she couldn't agree more. Brown eyes and a pea green dress did clash.

"Eww." She remarked.

The blood had finally dried and made a red powder on her fingertips. She pressed again into her flesh, feeling the bullets' tracks. She could feel one of them, the higher one, still buried under her skin below her breasts but above her sternum.

"Doesn't hurt. It should hurt." She made it a point to ask John why it didn't hurt, but was somehow worried about the answer. The question slipped into the pile with the rest. She would sit on it, think about it for a while.

In his hurry to leave John left the key s in the ignition. She turned the cylinder to the 'run' position and switched on the radio, cruising down the dial in search of a beacon in the static. Around 1200 kilohertz, she found it.

"...today where two people escaped from a prison in Preston County, Nevada. The search has spanned outward in all directions towards Las Vegas, Reno and Carson City. The pair was last seen in a yellow Bonneville, late model with Nevada tags. Citizens should be..."

Cameron switched off the radio. It was amazing how quickly her attention focused from nothing in particular to everything all at once. Every corner was a hiding place, every face had to be seen and stored away. The part of her that had come alive in the prison was very much alive and well, sitting in her chest. For the first time she noticed the people around her, how they moved and where they were going. Some of them may have been looking at her - it was hard to tell from inside the car. Some of them may have already seen her. She took a quick scan of the parking lot. There was a man loading his child into his pickup truck, his back was turned. There was an old couple shuffling along the sidewalk, and as they passed in front of the car Cameron saw the old man take his companions hand. There was a young man, not much older than John, staring at the car.

At her.

"He knows." She said this out loud. "He's a threat."

Without thinking about it, her hand took hold of the Colt. The young man wasn't alone out there. There was a girl, probably a teenager but maybe younger, bouncing along with her parents. She was wearing a skirt, one that Cameron judged to be much more suitable than her lime-green attire. She could take it if she wanted, threat or not.

There was a knock on the window and Cameron pulled the gun into her grip, snapping the barrel into firing position. It was John. He looked alarmed. She swung open the door and moved to get out of the car.

"Wait - here carry this up against your chest. We have to go."

"I know. I heard about us on the radio."

"Yeah, I did to, in the store. and I think someone may have noticed the car. Put - here, put the gun down."

They gathered all they had, the pistol and money, the spare rounds and new clothes and left the car there in a shade of a locust tree. John had been mistaken, no one noticed them. In fact, it would be another six hours before the police found the car and identified it properly as the one they were looking for. By then the sun had set, and John and Cameron had vanished into the world, two people whose only place to be was far, far away.

Any real attempt at escape would rely on their preparation, and John admitted to himself that this was lacking. Everything so far had been done by the seat of their pants, and that just wouldn't do. The five and dime backed up to a sort of primordial suburbia where the houses were spread out from one another and people had coaxed grass and trees that never should have been in Nevada to grow into a shimmering green arboretum. They walked, making quick progress from one block to the next as John kept an eye out for the Silver City.

As it turns out, he found something even better.

Just before they would have arrived at the motel they passed in front of a squat, angular house that reminded John of a thousand more he had seen in old neighborhoods in the suburbs of California. The front was largely brick and glass with a bright white garage door. It was one of the few houses on the block with a two car garage - surely a luxury in this day and age. Newspapers were piled on the doorstep.

"Here, follow me." He took her hand and led her up to the front door, watching for well intentioned neighbors. The porch was obscured by a thick willow bush badly in need of trimming, but John was sure they wouldn't be seen from the street.

John peered into the window, past the heavy curtains. "I don't see anyone. Ring the doorbell."

Cameron did, and they both watched and listened. After a moment, she rang again.

"We're not going to the motel?"

"They'll check the motels. Looks like these folks are on vacation, we can stay here at least until night, right?"

"If we can get in."

John set down what he was carrying. "Here, help me." He squared his shoulder against the door and pressed with all his strength.

"I don't think that will work, John."

"It will if you help me. Just come on, trust me."

She did, and as she dug her heels into the concrete she felt eh frame begin to sway. Harder and harder, the timber finally began to crack and give way before splintering inwards. John had stopped pressing a few moments before.

"See?" He said.

The house was dark and warm with curtains drawn over the large front and back windows. The door closed behind them, thought it would never pass a close inspection at least there was no damage on the outside of the home. It was a small house with modest appointments - a black and white television, pleated cloth on the sofa and chair with wood molding on the walls. John had been in houses like this and at the time thought the same thing others may have - they were ugly and in need of an upgrade. But here deep in the sixties the place had a charm of its own, one of many nestled here in a growing city.

At the back window, he swung open the curtains.

"There it is." The Silver City motel stood across an open lot at the back of the house, maybe a hundred yards or so from the edge of the back grass. "At least the view is good, right?"

Cameron was gone. John spun on his heels, going back to the front door and down the only hallway that lead into the tiny bedrooms. The bathroom door was closed, and a slit of light was at the bottom.

"Cameron?"

The moment she stepped into the house, Cameron felt it again. The need to move, to inspect was undeniable and her body did so nearly of its own accord. She had to check the doors, check the rooms, peer down the hallway. While she moved from one place to another, her mind still wandered and she contemplated, not for the last time, of the Cameron John had known, and just how much of her still remained concealed underneath pale skin, behind her

"Brown eyes." Her hand was at her face, tracing the jaw line down from just behind her ear to her chin. She was in front of the mirror in the bathroom, a feeble light coming from the hallway just enough to give her face depth and form. She wanted more light, to see what she really looked like.

_Click. _

The moment she appeared in the mirror she saw something else. Out of the corner of her eye, a tiny blue dot flashed three times. She froze, waiting for it to come back and filled with relief when it didn't. But she had seen it, as clear as she could see the creases in her lips and the fuzz on her cheek. What she had seen was part of her.

"Cameron!"

John was standing there, looking worried. He always looked worried when they were together. Her hand wandered up to her temple where the day before there had been a six-inch gash.

"What is it?"

"You wandered off."

"I was checking the house." She thought on her feet.

"Well, how's the bathroom?"

She hadn't expected that. "I think it's safe."

"Good to know, care to join me in the kitchen?"

She did, seeing that John had found a vantage point that lead to the Silver City.

"I thought you said we aren't going to the motel."

"We aren't, but we can watch from here. When the cops show up..." Cameron thought he sounded very sure of himself, but couldn't help but agree with him "We'll be watching from back here."

They unpacked what they had and spread it o n the table. It was a meager affair, just the pistol and extra rounds, some money and a simple outfit, pale blue and powder white.

"We don't have much." She told him.

John sighed. "Yeah, well we've never had much. This'll do."

She raised an eyebrow, wondering how that might be so. "Too bad we don't have the car."

John smiled. "Look what I found."

He took her through the kitchen and opened the door to the garage. Sitting in the dark, sparkling like it was brand new was a Chevy Apache. John took another moment to look it over – these old cars were bathed in chrome, and the truck was no exception. It was hard to tell the color in the dark, but he guessed bright green with two-tone body panels and white-walled tires.

"Where we come from this is a real classic." He told her.

"We're going to take it?" She wasn't exactly uncomfortable with the idea, but it would add to their already substantial list of offenses. A successful jailbreak. Assault on a federal officer. Weapons theft. Pea green attire. The list went on and she huffed at the absurdity of it.

"What are you laughing at?" John asked.

"We're real outlaws aren't we?" She stopped to look at him, pushing the door shut. "Was it always like this?"

John bowed his head. "We've never really had a normal life Cameron. Not me or you or mom."

"Mom?"

"Sarah, my mother. She was never very good with normal, not as long as I knew her anyway." John broke it off, deciding the conversation had gone far enough for his taste. He motioned at the blood.

"We should get that taken care of."

She nodded, not knowing exactly what he meant but feeling that it was alright. John seemed to at ease doing this, and she found her trust gravitating towards him without any effort on her part. "I think there's a bullet still inside. Can you take it out?"

John nodded. "Head to the bathroom, I'll be right there."

The ruined dress slipped from her shoulders and for the first time she could see the damage. The flesh was torn, and the blood dried. Cameron could see where it had pooled under the skin, where the first shot had ricocheted off into the room and left a gash the length of her first finger. As she massaged it, felt the drying skin that most obvious question found its way to her lips.

"What are you?" The reflection declined to answer, leaving her topless and feeling modest. She wrapped her arm around her breasts, hiding the blood and scars as well.

She could hear John down the hallway, coming back from the garage, with tools she hoped. The last bullet was just under her sternum, or so she thought. It may have traveled. She picked at it in the car and now that they had gotten to the house she tried to force herself to take it out. The feeling of her own fingers under her skin however was too much.

"Cam?" That was what John called her. She thought about a short name for him as well, deciding that John was short enough.

"I'm here."

"I'm coming in, alright?"

"Okay."

She watched his face as he came in, he eyes trying to look at her while still seeing what he had to do. She watched him, wondering if he would turn them away at the sight of the damage. When he did not, taking a knee in front of her and lifting her arm slightly she felt relieved but perhaps even more modest.

"Okay, it's not too far in there. I can get this out." She felt him probing around in her. There was no discomfort, only the feeling of the cold metal on her skin, and Johns hands on her belly. She was barely aware of the way the pliers clicked when he took the bullet, now flat and as big around as a nickel, and pulled it out of her.

"That's it."

He was about to rise when she put a hand on his shoulder, resisting him for the first time. "John, I got shot."

He paused and swallowed. "Yeah. But you're alright."

"I shouldn't be alright. He shot me..." She held her fingers to the entry wounds. "Right below the heart, and through the bottom of my right lung."

She let him rise this time because he insisted. John so close to her she could smell him, feel the heat from his breath. She knew he was taller than her but it had never dawned on her just how, and how he would look, this close, staring down.

John opened his mouth, fully intent on speaking his mind. Her eyes got the better of him. Whatever was there was deeply curious but afraid and he felt any words he spoke may break that spell.

"But you are alright, and I thank you. You took a bullet for me, you came to get me."

She thought about this for a moment. "It seemed like the right thing to do."

He nodded. "Well, I think it was. Thank you Cameron Phillips." It felt good to say the name he had first known her by.

She smiled a little, taking the dress. "That's my name?"

"That's the one."

Cameron exhaled, turning her eyes downward. The smile faded.

"I don't know who that is. I don't know who I am, or who you are or -" Whatever strength she had been riding on gave out in that moment, and her modesty left her as she wrapped her arms around him. It could have happened to anyone, anyone else but her but at that moment the world seemed a very big place for Cameron Phillips.

"John Connor." He embraced her lightly. "You've known me for longer than I've known myself. You knew my name before you ever met me."

She choked out a laugh. "That doesn't seem likely."

"But it is. I remember how you had me fooled when we first met, played my like a cheap guitar. You'll remember."

Looking back up at him, she could see the resolution on his face, his expression totally earnest. He did not doubt what he said was true and though that moment lasted only one heart beat she took it and stored it away. It was the first good memory for Cameron Phillips.

"How?" She had to know, right now if possible everything inside his head but the curl of his lip told her that she would wait, and so would he.

He didn't know, but that was too much to say. "Trust me, okay? You've got to trust me."

That, she could do.

(*****)

Later, much later, Cameron came into the kitchen. John was there working. She got the feeling that he was a lot like that, that he might have a hard time sitting back and just letting things unfold. He had a tiny amount of light to read by, and his eyes shifted between the Nevada atlas on the table and some place off in the distance, out of her field of vision.

"Are you about ready to go?" He said. She didn't think he had seen her.

"Yes, I think so." She came and sat with him, pulling a chair up close to his.

John noticed, but didn't slide over. "Good. Here." He placed his finger on a narrow strip of yellow that ran across Nevada, uninterrupted by cities or towns. "Highway fifty."

Cameron ran her hand along the road, reading the little blurb at the bottom of the page. "Highway fifty, sometimes called the loneliest road in America, parallels the old pony express line that ran between Utah and Carson City. Travelers want to make sure to check out the many stops along the way, including several ghost towns and notable cemeteries."

She looked up at him, his face cast in shadow and pale yellow light. "Sounds lonely."

"It won't be. It'll just be you and me, no side trips, just stopping for gas."

"We're leaving tonight?"

John nodded. "Just before dawn. I need to get some sleep, lots of driving up ahead."

"I can drive." She told him

"We'll trade off, but I'll take the start okay? I need to get some sleep first."

"The master bed is made, you could sleep there." I won't be sleeping, Cameron thought. She wondered if he knew about that.

He shook his head. "No, that's alright. Something about strangers beds, you never know want they're doing in them. The couch is fine."

Cameron tried to formulate in her mind what she wanted to say. Part of her wanted, very much so, to talk with him, to know him in the way she apparently had at one point. Though it wasn't the whole point, in knowing him she felt she may come closer to knowing herself and these thoughts tantalized her brain so that she could hardly stand it.

But when she looked over, John was already asleep. His arm was thrown over his face, his chest rising and falling just so. She chose a place near to his face where she could hear the wind in his lungs, where she could see him in the dark. Just as quickly as John had found his place she took hers, her head resting on her hands and sleep still a pleasant fantasy.

"John Connor huh? What's so special about you?" She said to herself.


	4. Chapter 4

Authors note: I'm back! I know it has been forever since my last update, but I have been working on MnL in the time between just getting the story right in my head. If you can believe it this is probably the fifth revision of this chapter alone, so I have been writing quite a bit.

There are other chapters close to completion, and this chapter is not indicitive of the length of future installments. Check back soon for the next one, which should bring in some new characters and concepts. Please read and review, and damn it feels good to be back!

(*****)

"God dammit."

Lance Courier didn't know how long he had been sitting in the car. The stars were out and the electric street lights fluttered against the night, throwing halos of yellow light down over the car. The rest of the world was beyond his vision, peering in through the glass, strange shapes coiled for so long in the darkness they became animate and ghoulish. It had been to long since his last drink, but since there were demons new in this world he felt no need to recall those that dwelled within him.

Bang. Bang.

He went over it all again in his head. He'd left Vegas early that morning, driving up the state highway and making good enough time to be back in Vegas before nightfall. He stopped for coffee right around sunrise at the shop right off the entrance to the freeway and bought a newspaper and a pack of smokes. He got on the state highway and drove straight, not stopping until he pulled up to the jailhouse in Carver, Nevada.

Nathan, the 'informant', was there. The sheriff was not, but his mind was still in that other place telling him that there were no secrets left in the world and today was just as ordinary as the last. It wouldn't take long - there were no spies in Carver, Russian or otherwise and his immediate impression of Nathan was that he was either a bully or a buffoon but more likely a little bit of both. John was intelligent and reserved. He may have been hiding something but that something wasn't launch codes for a hidden ICBM. That he may have raped a girl had entered his mind, but that was local business despite the nature of the crime. He kept his questions focused and was greeted with a set of simple, canned answers that gave the impression that the kid was one step ahead, or at least keeping pace with his surroundings.

John gave no impression that anything was amiss save for a sudden change in facial tone and the cracking of his voice that Lance read as the onset of true fear, that the reality of talking with a Federal agent was finally sinking in and that he may actually be in real trouble. John flinched and Courier smirked. He should have looked over his shoulder. He was angry with himself for not picking up on this sooner, but in retrospect it probably wouldn't have helped. Looking back he should be happy he was out of there and alive.

What happened after that was as close to a waking dream as he had experienced for years.

Cameron's strength was surreal. Nathan was down before he even got off a snide remark and he hit the wall enough with enough force to give him a concussion and two broken ribs. Still it seemed as if Cameron hadn't meant to hurt him. He shuddered to think of what might happen if she had. The memory began to blur, but he remembered her strides across the room, swift and long as her dress whisked around her calves, stopping as he raised his weapon. He may have still been focused on her legs at that point, it was hard to remember. He fired, twice. The gun was still alive in his hand, the kick as fresh as if it had been seconds ago but when he looked down his piece was gone. All he could remember after that was a blur of motion and pain like he had been hit by a car, then darkness.

There the memory ended. He didn't remember waking up, collecting his things or driving back to Las Vegas but here he was sitting alone in the dark, his sidearm sling empty and a manila folder beside him with photographs and the reports for both of them. John and Cameron had no record but what he carried in the front seat of his car. They were anonymous people unknown to the agencies on either coast or anywhere in between, it seemed.

Courier had to pry his fingers off of the steering wheel and unlock his knees from their sitting position. There was a dull ache at the back of his head and another brewing in his abdomen right where she had booted him. He knew it could have been worse - Lance could tell when people were holding back, and Cameron hadn't given him all she had. His gut told him that if she did, a bruised ego would be the least of his concerns.

His office and the office of about a dozen other F.B.I. agents in northern Vegas - occupied the entire second floor of a plain concrete building well outside the strip. It was isolated, out of the way and the only way you would know that the bureau had a presence there was the line of cars parked there during the day, all government issued black four-doors. This place was perfect for someone like him. It was away from the field commanders and politics and away from the more vicious crime of criminals killing other criminals that not only sickened him but was not actively being investigated. Crimes like that were seen as victim-less and so were rarely brought to center attention.

He stomped upstairs, leaving the lights off, being sure to feel his way past the lip of the staircase and the low table at the foot of the steps. Once up the long, narrow flight of stairs he pulled out his key and made to unlock the door when it swung open, creaking on its hinges.

"Unlcoked? We're the goddamned F.B.I. for chrissake." He stepped past the entryway, feeling a cool breeze blow through his hair.

"I let myself in, but I don't think there is much damage."

Courier spun on his heels out of reflex, dropping what he was carrying and reaching for a pistol that was a hundred miles away. He nearly fell, pawing at the lights until he found the switch and flipping it on.

"Who the fuck are you?" It was a question, an exasperation and spoken so rapidly it sounded like one solid word.

There was a man, long and gaunt sitting at the clerks desk near the door. He squinted as if the light was unfamiliar to him, peering up at Courier as the agent stared down at him, suddenly feeling very awake.

"My name is Stillwater, Agent Courier. A pleasure." His voice was dry and high pitched. He rose, seeming to teeter on one leg as he held out one thin arm.

Courier took his hand without thinking. "What the hell are you doing in my office?" He bent down to collect the things he'd dropped.

"I was waiting for you. I stopped by this afternoon and inquired as to your wereabouts. That was when I heard of the...er...incident in Carver. I thought I might be of some assistance." He spoke, reaching down. "Let me get that for you."

"No thank you." The F.B.I. agent had regained some of his composure and set out across the room to his desk at the far side, near the open window. "Now, answer my question." He dumped the articles off and reached for the gun buckled to his leg.

"No need for that! Well, not yet anyway. I'd like to talk with you, offer an exchange of services between myself and the bureau." He strolled across the room and Courier noticed he favored one leg, his right, over the other. It was probably a hip or knee injury but he hid it well.

"Well you need to talk to central down near the strip, they handle interdepartmental affairs. Just what agency are you with, anyway?"

Stillwater smiled, his lips turning thin and pale as they parted to reveal a mouth of pure white teeth. "I didn't say - I am with another agency, but we prefer not to involve upper levels of management. I'm sure you understand."

"No I don't think I do, why don't you explain it to me?"

Stillwater seemed to respond to that, thinking over it for a moment. His smile was still there but it was empty now, just the shape of his face and when it went away Courier was relieved.

"I think you know why I'm here Agent. There's only one thing on your mind right now and I know it isn't me. How am I doing?"

Courier tried not to let on, but somehow he did. Stillwater stepped closer and now he could smell the other man. There was sickness there, a sickness of the flesh that seeped from him despite the neatly tuned dress suit draped over his skeletal frame.

"She could have killed you, you know that?"

Lance must have nodded.

"That's what she does - she is an assassin. She has killed before, innocent people, good people. You've known people like her, but nobody just like her. She would have done you today if you had really been in her way." The way Stillwater spoke was less a voice and more a slither of words. The expression on his face was poker-cool.

"How do you even know this? Any of it?"

"Those are my secrets Lance, and I'll keep them until I find a genuine trade." He went on. "I'm offering you a chance to go places you may have only thought about, but this offer has a price."

"And that price is? Death?"

Stillwater shrugged. "Maybe. I won't lie, it is a dangerous road but you already knew that and still you are thinking it over, which says a lot about a man." He stepped across the office, past the filing cabinets and the end table to the open window, straightening his jacket and breathing deep.

"I'm not sure if I can-"

But Stillwater was already turning towards him, his hand outstretched with a simple white card between his fingers. "Sleep on it my friend. Choices like this are best made on a good nights rest."

Courier took the card and saw an address and a phone number in plain black ink, nothing else.

"613 Battery. Thats past the edge of town, is there even anything out there?"

Stillwater was on his way out the door, donning a black porkpie hat and slipping a cigarette into his mouth. He lit it and took a long drag, tapping into an ashtray with what could only be described as a profound sense of satisfaction.

"Yes, that is where I will be until eight tomorrow morning. Come alone, or don't come at all. I can be reached at that telephone number until then as well." He paused as he stepped through the door to take one last look at the office. "And Lance, if you do decide to come, bring a carton of Camels. I haven't had one in a very long time."

He shut the door behind him, and Courier listened as he padded down the steps. Not until he heard the front door of the building slam shut did he slump down in his chair, his head between his hands.

"What was that all about?" Talking to himself was becoming quite a pastime.

The manila envelope beckoned him and his plucked it from his desk, dumping the papers and photographs out in a jumble. He flipped up Johns picture first, then his writeup. He picked up statements from both of the brothers and the wife - now that was an interesting interview.

Something was gone.

Camerons picture was nowhere to be found. Lance ran to the front to see if it was still on the floor, but there was nothing.

"Fuck." He hissed.

He ran back to the window in time to see Stillwater standing there in his hat, his jacket thrown over his shoulder looking back as if he expected him to come through that window. He held up the picture of Cameron, unmistakable even at that distance.

"Thank you Lance. I'll see you tomorrow I hope." And then the shadows swallowed him up and he was gone.

Agent Courier swore again to himself, pounding his fist on the desk. The whole incident felt strange in his mouth and his higher instincts told him to let it be, turn it in just like it was and forget that anything happened in Carver or in his office. At least that would be the smart thing to do.

But he couldn't. He had known from the moment Stillwater made the offer that he would take him up on it, and that it might mean the end of his career. Stillwater wasn't from any Agency he had ever heard of, all that cloak and dagger stuff was bullshit. There were channels to go through, better people to talk to than him but still here it was, the ticket out from behind the shadow of the F.B.I., the politics and out of Vegas.

He sat down in his chair, relaxed and calm. The choice was an easy one to make. He took out his badge and sat it on the desk facing away from him. Tension flowed out of him and before he knew it sleep had caught up with him, a deep dreamless sleep that welcomed him for what seemed like days instead of hours.

When he woke the phone was ringing and the dawn was just breaking. He reached for the phone before he was fully awake.

"Hello Lance speaking."

It was the office in Carson City. They had found the car, and nearby a house had been broken into. There was a truck missing. He scribbled it down on the back of Johns dossier.

Courier slammed the phone down before the person on the other line got a chance to finish. He spun the combination lock for the safe under his desk and pulled out his revolver. It wasn't quite the piece that the 1911 was, but it still packed a punch. There was ammunition, and he took it. There was his badge, and he left it. Who needed trifling things like that when you could have an adventure.

"Christ, they have six hours on us." He said, making his way out the door.

The corner shop where he got his coffee sold Camels and he picked up a carton for them both. He thought about what Stillwater had said - that everything had a price. The price he would charge for the Camels was an explanation for the strange tattoo on his wrist. Lance Courier sped down the road towards Battery street, his tires kicking up a great cloud of dust and gravel as he took his first steps into the deeply unknown.


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't sleep long. He was awake well before dawn, chased from sleep by dreams so vivid and dark that it took him a moment to realize where he was. The nightmare, frightening though it had been, was also a comfort. Even here his visions were the same. He could see the red-iron eyes across in the distance, countless hundreds of them in an unblinking phalanx, enough to give the night a deadly red glow to go with the sound of clicking, whirring death. One moment he was asleep, the next he was completely awake. Cameron was where he left her some hours ago. She looked at him, her expression blank and untelling.

"Are we leaving?"

John rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, let's get out of here. Grab whatever you think you'll need, but we can't take much."

"How far are we going?"

He stopped for a moment, thinking of a good answer. "We have a long way to go Cameron."

For the moment that would be enough. She gathered everything she thought she would need - the gun, the ammo, the money. John brought changes of clothes and the atlas and she stopped him.

"We don't need that." She snatched it out of his hand.

"What? Why?"

"I read it while you were asleep."

John sighed and took it back. "I might need it." All this and a few other things went in the truck. Cameron thought about the map and the clothes - you didn't really need those things, she thought. The gun, the money, those things had function. She was about to walk out of the room when she spotted a simple ornament on the wall.

"What's this?" She asked.

John turned to see a small bust mounted on the wall, cast in bronze. It was old, the metal tarnished and worn, the curves worn smooth and the color of turned leaves. Though the face was hardly fine features John could see the downturned eyes and the lips half open. There was an inscription visible below the shoulder - a woman's name.

"It's Mary Magdalene."

"I know that name." She said.

"She was an apostle." John motioned towards her. She learned from Jesus, long time ago." He tried to smile but again making light of it seemed dishonest.

"She was more than that." Cameron seemed to pick up on his disingenuousness. "Mary was the highest apostle, because though all of the apostles followed him, but it was Mary who would be at his side always. She was there when he died, and she was the first to see him risen. Did you know that she loved him John? That part isn't in the gospels, but I think it should have been."

John nearly stepped back as she spoke. This was Cameron as he had not seen her, and he struggled to take in every frame of her face, every word off her lips.

Cameron stopped speaking and turned to him, once again submerging whatever was within her beneath the surface, perhaps just below the pale arch of her cheek.

John avoided having to think about it any further by stepping away. They would be off soon, there would be plenty of time to talk on the road, if he could ever find the words.

Cameron watched him walk away, beginning to understand the fundamental difference between John and herself. She had frightened him, it was on his face. She could see that he blended in with people, he could talk with them and put them at ease. Why, then, when she was around him did she not feel that same effect? He could have been keeping things from her but that didn't seem likely, she hoped. John _was_ private. She understood the meaning of it, but John was her definition. As she watched him pack the truck she felt something in her head click, like the tiny gears inside a clock. She felt as if she had felt a thought, a change in her mind or perception. She waited but nothing further happened, but she knew she would have to spend time figuring out why he needed his map. It was only lines on paper, after all.

Cameron settled on the bench seat for the long drive, her legs curling underneath her. Through the strange and willful mechanisms in her mind she was the growing truth: One of them, perhaps John but more likely her, was part of something bigger. John seemed to look after her, to watch out for the things she did. She hadn't liked it at first but now it seemed that the two of them had little else. When he joined her in the cab she smiled, perhaps on purpose and saw that he smiled back. It felt good. She made it a point to smile more, if only to get John to do the same. She felt it again, a little click in her head. Nothing changed.

After a brief spell of staring the car, John pulled out of the driveway and into the barely-cool Nevada night. The air was dry and the sky was heavy with the Milky Way and her brood of stars. John looked up in the darkness and saw only the endless maw of space. A few minutes later Carson City was behind them, another footnote in their travels.

They drove under a cloudless, moonless sky for hours eastward. Just as they passed the city limits John glanced over his shoulder, framing the city as it slept. They would never return this way. Their path led eastward towards the heartland, away from the coast where so much of their future would come to pass. They would need answers, those both profound and frightening, but for now the only guide was the road which gave up its secrets a quarter mile at a time as they raced towards the sunrise.

The police did find the Pontiac right where John had left it after the store manager noticed the car when closing up, seeing the blood on the front seat. There was a frantic search of local establishments and even some suspicion that the fugitives had boarded a bus headed for Los Angeles earlier in the day. These claims were frivolous and only served to widen the lead time as their tread marks turned to dusty swirls that vanished from the pavement.

In the days after, the uproar around the event died down and people forgot all about it. Only those closest to it would recall the two strangers who blew into Carver and then right back out again as if to say they had greater wagers elsewhere, and the middle places of the world were not grand enough for such tall tales. Eventually the desert sands would claim Carver and all of her people, Johns arrest photograph finding its resting place there until Judgment Day and well after, a testament to how much we really forget.

In the East the horizon turned a deep purple right around the time the fuel gauge reached half-staff and John began to wonder just how long they would go between stations. He tried to keep track in his head - fifty five mile an hour, three hours or so, a hundred and fifty miles of wide open road with no rest stops and only a few gallons of fuel in the tank.

And there was Cameron.

John looked over at her occasionally, trying to draw her out even just a little. If anything she seemed to recede farther inward, into a place where John could only hope to follow.

A road sign flashed past. Forty five miles to Fortune City, Nevada.

"We'll stop up ahead and get gas, how does that sound?"

Cameron sat in the seat, her eyes glued on some point ahead in the darkness, beyond the reach of the headlights. For a moment he thought she may have drifted off again into the ether of her mind. Her behavior was just as it had always been, mysterious and hard to predict. He made to reach for her hand and then

"Fortune City, population six hundred and seventy nine as of the nineteen sixty census. The town had its beginnings in the silver rush that birthed other, smaller cities around the area, but it was the largest and the only one of those places that continues as a municipality." She said, almost to herself.

John heard every word. On the one hand, it did sound like Cameron. On the other hand she seemed to shrink with every fact she could recall.

"Where did you hear that?"

"I read while you were asleep. The house had an encyclopedia and I found an article on Route Fifty. I read that one in two minutes, and went on to read about Nevada becoming a state in 1864. After that, I inferred the silver rush from an article called 'Henry Jenkins'. He lived from eighteen forty nine until his death from consumption in the fall of eighteen ninety-nine. I came across the article for Fortune City while reading his biography. Apparently, the museum there has some of his relics." She turned to him, completely calm. "We can take a tour."

"Cameron."

"I read sixteen thousand words in six minutes last night John, in three different volumes of the Worldbook."

He could feel the pain in her expression, the way her voice played everything in one long, drawn out tone. "That's...good."

"John."

This wasn't going as well as he had hoped. "Yeah." He whispered, barely above the roar of the six cylinder engine.

_Click._ "I don't sleep." _Click._ Twice?

He knew. "I know Cam."

"Why?" She shut her eyes as tightly as she could, her jaw clenching so much he could hear her teeth grinding. "I can't, even like this. I can't sleep."

"Cameron! I know, alright, I know you don't sleep."

"I've been awake for almost three days, ever since I first opened my eyes. I should be too tired to move."

"But you aren't, are you? You feel fine."

She exhaled slowly, taking careful note of the way her knees felt pulled against her chest. "I don't know what I feel." She pressed her knuckles into her temples, trying to distract herself from whatever was happening inside her head.

_'That makes two of us.'_

Dawn was drawing very close as the eastern sky turned a dull purple, and more vivid pink and lavender. They were still twenty miles from Fortune City and miles farther from any terminus but there were things in that desert worth waiting for, and John pulled over to the side of the road on a knobby hill where you could look out in every direction and see the stars winking out of sight, one by one.

"What are we doing?" Cameron asked.

John didn't answer. He got out of the truck and walked over to the passenger door, pulling Cameron out with him. The air was still as they shared a look, John holding her at arms' length, hands on her shoulders.

"You really don't remember anything do you?"

She shook her head with a bitter smile. "I'm sorry John."

"Do you want to?"

She rolled her head to one side and pondered. "Yes, I do." Cameron wondered why he had asked. "Don't I?"

John let her go, instead placing his hand on her temple where the gash had been. "I want you to. I want you to remember so we can go home."

"And if I don't?"

John remained motionless, unable to answer. "I don't..."

"You don't know." It wasn't a comforting thought, and she turned away from him.

"It's alright Cam. Look, over there." He motioned to the horizon, where the horizon turned to meet the sun.

Cameron looked hard, trying to see what he was pointing to. There was something out there, something John wanted her to see.

"I don't see anything."

"You will." He did not let her go, instead settling in behind her shoulder, one hand on her back and the other calling the sun over the horizon.

What they saw was a sunrise, the most brilliant orange and yellow sky that John could ever remember. He wondered if he had ever really seen one before, and he shielded his eyes as the air began to bend out in the desert.

"It's a memory Cameron, maybe your first good one." He spoke to her, whispering in her ear. "There are others like this one for other people, maybe thousands a day or even more, but this one is ours."

"It's beautiful." She said, and needed to say nothing else.

After a while the sun rose up in the air, high off the land and they returned to normal where she finally noticed his hand on her and leaned into him. John didn't resist.

"It'll get better Cameron."

She turned to look at him and at last her face took on a familiar curve. "How do you know?"

"It just will, alright. I don't know, but I know that it's darkest before the dawn." He smiled, and shrugged just a little. "That's what they say, anyway."

She believed him, maybe because she wanted to. Cameron watched the sun for a minute longer, knowing John was watching her in turn. The warmth against her skin was intoxicating, she could feel it down to her core.

"John, let's go."

Fortune City, forty five miles.

Beyond that, who knew.

(*****)

Fortune City was largely as Cameron described it, and she pointed out where she thought the picture in the encyclopedia was likely taken from. There was a street corner with a four way stop and a full-service gas station with baby blue and white fixtures. It was ugly but not out of place in a town where the tallest building was the water tower and there wasn't a stoplight for miles.

The station was called the 'Spiffy' and apparently wasn't open yet.

"Shit, hasn't anyone ever heard of twenty-four-seven?" John said.

"The sign says they open at nine."

"Great, I guess we'll just sit here." He flipped the switch off on the steering column and looked out the window. Across the street a number of cars were parked around a breakfast diner and steam was gently rolling out of a funnel on the roof.

"Hey Cam, you hungry?" He looked at her. "I'll be they have pancakes."

She wasn't really - another oddity, but decided to indulge him. He seemed excited and hadn't eaten in a day or more - nothing substantial anyway. They left the truck parked at the gas station and jaywalked to the _Crumbcake_, John following his nose to what he hoped was a stack of flapjacks three deep covered in maple syrup.

"Mornin' kids, grab a seat anywhere and I'll be right there." The door banged shut behind them, ringing with silver bells. An older woman was behind the cash register reading the morning paper and fiddling with her glasses. She seemed cheery but withered, her face running with deep crevasses brought on by the sun or the smoking, or both John returned her smile and thought it felt plastered on, but it was still better than Cameron's' thousand yard stare.

The place smelled like tobacco and coffee and the sun played through the smoke as it drifted through the room. There were a few patrons lined at the bar making idle conversation, ignoring the people that just walked in. A few more folks were at the window seats looking out at the street, some alone and some not. John drew Cameron over with him and they took their place at the very end, within sight of the truck.

"Morning, hi how are ya? From out of town?" The hostess slipped two tall waters to them and brought out her pen and pad.

"We're from Carver." Cameron said.

John put his hand on hers. "Well, not from Carver really, but we know people there. We're just out seeing the sights."

The hostess was wearing horn rimmed glasses and she looked over them right at John. "See what hon'?"

"You know...the sights." He smiled faintly as his bluff seemed fairly lame, even for him.

She laughed a little at this, but only a little. John thought it was probably one of those at-you laughs as opposed to the other kind.

"So, come on order up. Mike's waiting back there to fix something real good."

"John wants pancakes." Cameron looked across at him. "How many?"

She caught him off guard and he gulped down, noticing that Cameron had brought the pistol in with her. His eyes got to be about the size of hubcaps as he stuttered out an answer.

"Enough for two please. Uh...do you have a morning paper?"

"Ten cents."

Cameron smiled. "Thanks."

The woman gave her a genuine smile back. "Sure thing, It'll be right out. And I'll get that paper for you in just a sec."

_Click._

There it was _again. _Cameron furrowed her brow and felt the urge to scratch - but to scratch what? The itch was inside her, this strange sensation that there was something in her body that was well out of her control. Her mind snapped back to reality as she felt John touch her.

"You brought the gun?" He was whispering to her, just barely making a sound but she found she could hear him just fine.

"Yes I brought the gun." She said this loudly enough so that John was sure everyone could hear. He looked around - there were a few people in the cafe but none of them turned to him.

"Keep your voice down." He told her. "What did you bring it for?"

"I didn't want to leave it on the seat."

John accepted this more out of a desire to end the conversation than anything else - the waitress was coming back with the paper and some coffee.

"Okay here ya' go, coffee for two and a copy of the Herald - your pancakes will be right out hon, Mike's back there workin' on them. Anything else you need?"

Cameron didn't hesitate, pulling the 1911 out from under the table and showing it to the waitress. "Do you know where I could get some ammunition for this?"

"Oh my! Okay then, well I'm not sure but could you put that down miss?"

John thought he saw an opportunity and took it. The safety was switched on and he reached across the table, his arm breezing past the stunned waitress. He was quick but Cameron, being of course herself was much faster and she didn't even let him get close, twirling the pistol in the air and into her other hand. John backed off.

"Oops! Really sorry folks, just a little excited. It's a present for Dad, you know how it is. We're sorry." John said, watching Cameron as the waitress backed away slowly.

"What did you do that for?" He asked her, half whispering, half yelling.

"You tried to take it without asking!" She said, similarly.

The waitress left, casting a glance over her shoulder as she did. Her shoes clacked on the floor one right after the other as she galloped off, and John saw her nearly topple over as she went into the kitchen. There, he could see her face poke through the door and then the exited, hushed talking of two people carrying on a conversation at machinegun pace.

"Great." He muttered. They may have to leave, and soon. Glancing around one last time he noted that at least a few eyebrows had been raised. The people weren't looking at him so much as they were keeping the two of them in their vision. He saw one man get up to leave as his eyes wandered over to him, a cup of coffee on the table with a two dollar bill pinned underneath.

While John was distracted, something on the table caught Cameron's eye. The paper the waitress had brought was there, folded in half. She could read the date and part of the headline. There was a picture on the front, black and white, of a few men in uniforms. All of it was familiar in the same way the pistol was - a sensation of relevance and history. She took the paper from under Johns arm.

"Hey - that's mine." John protested.

She seemed to ignore him, but just at the right time she slid the gun across the table to him. "Trade." She said, quietly. As she did she felt the strange sensation in her head, this time amplified as her eyes scanned the newspaper, then she felt it no more.

He took the gun and jammed it down the front of his pants, making doubly sure that the safety was on lest he remove a part of his anatomy that may later come in handy. Several people had seen him, and he was certain that the waitress had poked her head through the kitchen door while he was distracted. All of a sudden the room felt much smaller, the smoke thicker. There was sweat on his palms and when he next looked at Cameron his mouth may have hung open for just a moment.

She had flipped through most of the paper by now, its pages flying by so quickly he couldn't catch even the inflated headlines. Her lips moved as if she were reading, her eyes flicked back and forth across the page. Every so often she would come across something - a picture or symbol, he couldn't tell what - and settle on it almost like she was remembering it for later. She would soak up every swoon of the ink, every word in a caption, every face and name. When she got to the end of the Herald, she stopped, her hand feeling in the air for more when there was none.

After some amount of time that he couldn't remember she looked at him, the newspaper still open across her lap.

"John." She said.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to speak again. She did.

"There is something odd about this paper."

"I don't think so Cameron."

"I do. Look." She tore out a page, the loud _riiiiip_ cackling around the room. Her voice was carrying a bit father now, and John hunched his shoulders down as he felt the eyes and ears around them begin to settle on their little table by the window.

"Here." She laid her finger across a headline not unlike the one he had read a few days ago in the Carver jail. The mercenary landing on Cuba was still on the front page. "This was called the Bay of Pigs. It ended with the death or capture of all invading forces." She read over the headline again as if to make sure that it made sense, verifying its contents. "This happened in April of 1961." This time, she was whispering to him.

John took the page from her. "What does the date say on the front page Cam?"

"It says April 23, 1961." She looked at the front page, again trying to make sure. "It does, look."

"So it pretty much happened yesterday." He said as straight faced as he could.

Cameron sat back in her chair for just a moment before snapping back up to speak to him again. This time her voice wasn't subdued, and she reached across the table to take his arm. For a moment John thought she might just throw him through the window. Instead she began to speak in staccato, not stopping to breathe or think.

"On the 25th of May the President will announce that the United States will reach the moon by the end of the decade. The goal will be realized but President Kennedy will not live to see it. In October the Soviet Union will detonate the Tsar Bomba, the largest atomic weapon to be detonated on earth until that time. In 1962 there will be a series of events leading up to the Cuban Missile crisis, which will bring the world closer to the brink of nuclear war than it has been at this point. The situation is successfully resolved by John Kennedy, who will be assassinated in November of the year following -"

"Cameron!" John felt the need to speak up and cut her off if only to quiet the history spilling from her mouth.

She had stopped, now she was looking right at him with a stare that John could only describe as intense - her eyes were swirling with both curiosity and fear. "John. I can't stop it."

"What, Cameron? What can't you stop?"

She flung the newspaper to the floor, the feeling of discovery gone completely from her mind now replaced with an endless deployment of thoughts and memories streaming into her consciousness. They rose from a deep well, not through her ears or in through her vision but in through her mind's eye and even as she tried to shut them off they only accelerated.

"I can't stop moving. My head, I can't stop this thing in my head from...oh!" She had to think of something. Her head felt like it might explode, just pop right off of her shoulders. The sensation was numbing and now she could hardly hear her own voice. "I've got to go." She said to him, getting up unsteadily and heading towards the back door. "I've got...to..."

John watched as Cameron staggered off to the restroom. He voice trailed off, and thought it looked as though she was talking to him or maybe even herself he couldn't hear a word she said. The brave population of the diner that remained now had their attention centered on the strange travelers. John could only shrink in his chair.

(*****)

The waitress wore a huge, unnatural smile as she brought back two tall stacks of pancakes. Though she tried to speak as if there was nothing troubling her, the plates rattled as she set them on the table. John could see her brow, shiny with sweat. "Here you are. Is your friend alright? She seems put off. Did you two…?"

"No, I'm sure she's fine. It's been a rough couple of days." John said. 'Or decades, depending on how you look at it.' Those words didn't make it past the filter in his head. He smiled and thanked her for the food, taking a big bite out of his flapjacks as he watching the hallway where Cameron had vanished to.

While he was alone at the table John weighed the situation. The bathroom door was a good twenty feet away, maybe a bit more than that, but if Cameron came out swinging he would have to think fast. He still had the pistol but it wouldn't do him any good. Sarah would be so fucking pissed with him right about now - and not just pissed like he'd been busted hacking or maybe slipped their cover, that was fixable. No, the fastest way to get Sarah mad was to put his own ass on the line.

_'Risks are for other people John.'_ That sounded just like her, and he mouthed the words to himself.

He was in danger now, the tangible kind with binary consequences. He placed his hand gingerly against the glass window and tested it. It was a pane sheet and would shatter pretty easily, but the shards could kill him and that was no joke. The truck was right out there and he checked his pocket, taking another sip of coffee and a bite out of his breakfast. He had the keys, he was still in charge.

For now.

(*****)

She waited for the memories to stop their forward pace. She could detect that they were slowing, maybe reaching some end at an event that would tell her all she needed to know. She kept staring in the mirror, her stoic face not at all matching what she felt. It was as if there were two people in charge now, one out there, in control of her body, speaking for her, moving for her, and one in here doing all the important things like thinking, breathing.

Cameron saw it again, in the corner of her vision. The dot was back, big and blue as she stared at the porcelain sink. It flashed three times and she waited expectantly for something to happen but counting the seconds she decided that whatever was going on in her head would wait.

Then it was quiet.

Whatever had been dumping memories into her mind was gone now, and what was with her was the blessed silence of her own thoughts. She was in charge again. She felt her face move the way it was supposed to. Her mind had come to rest on one date.

February 28, 1985. The day John Connor was born.

It struck her then as it may have earlier, had she not been so overwhelmed with her senses going wild and her memory reloading, John was born on the 28th of February in 1985, which gave him an age of negative thirty some years. She wrapped her mind around this, knowing it was true in some primal way, knowing that her memories were not wrong. All of this was flowing through her when she saw that blue dot one last time and…

**REBOOT**

The word flashed above the dot, which had pulsed three time and this time not gone away. It was a persistent artifact in her vision, glowing in defiance of her better sense. In the mirror her eyes were wide open, her lips just barely parted. Cameron felt the world falling away from her as the images in her vision faded to monotone outlines, then to shadows, and then to nothing at all.

Then she was in a space with no walls and no light, save for a single shaft of white that shone down on her head. The darkness surrounding her was absolute and impenetrable, and try as she may she could not see into it. She felt cold and light on her feet as if suspended. For a moment she felt as if she might fall and her hands went out to the void as a reflex. Her movements felt sluggish and heavy.

Cameron had suspected ever since she woke up that she was not alone in her head, and that there was someone unknown lurking just behind her face. Was she the mask, or was the mask within her? It didn't matter, she wasn't alone. Not then, and not now as the voices in her mind spoke to her clearly.

There was not a crowd of them but merely a handful, each with a tone and message. Though she could not understand the words she could hear meaning in pitch and inflection. One voice was slick and soothing, friendly and compliant but only just so. There was another voice that was wavering, a thin reedy voice that had been calling out forever, maybe unheard in the void until now.

But there was one voice that chilled her to the bone. It was cold and metallic, it's message one of remorseless action, unstoppable force. The voice had no emotion and its tempo was steady and deadly, like a bullet from a gun. Cameron heard it most clearly when stopped to listen and she could almost make out the words. The voice didn't waver and it did not stop, and just as one moment the words were unfamiliar the next moment she heard and understood.

"Cameron."

She thought to answer, but before she could the voice spoke to her again.

"I know you can hear me, Cameron Phillips." The other voices receded into the background even as their sounds became strained to the point of screaming, gone until even the loudest was only a whisper to her ears.

"I know you've been looking for me." The voice was unwavering and metallic, its intensity as if whoever was speaking was right beside her, right inside her.

"Who are you?" She asked, suddenly sounding small in the great space.

"I am you, and you are me." It was true, this was her voice but it didn't sound like her. She never sounded like that. No one could ever sound like that that had lived and breathed. "I know you want to know more about me."

Cameron didn't answer, detecting the subtle shift in her tone. "I'm not so sure about that." her voice was no louder than a thought, but here thoughts could carry for miles.

"But you do." Now in front of her there was a mirror, and not just one but several. There was perhaps one to go with each voice, and each one was different. The one before her was tall and slender, the edges perfect and sharp and the whole thing wrapped in a thin metal frame. In the mirror was her reflection - those high cheeks and perfect lips, brown eyes and cross gaze. Cameron felt as if she would never be able to escape that gaze or its piercing intent. Whoever was in the mirror was looking into her as much as at her, filling her for the first time with real fear.

She brought herself to look harder, more closely at her double trapped in the sheet of glass and then saw something else. There was a red hue of intense authority and knew she would never be able to resist whatever or whoever was on the other side of that mirror. One last time, it spoke.

"I can tell you about John, if you want." The offer was sweet as honey as the figure reached out from the mirror to touch her. Her hand came so close that Cameron could taste her, smell her.

The glass warped as this woman reached for her hand, and Cameron did not recoil. This was a part of her past quite literally coming back to her and she had the urge to grasp her wrist and pull this other her through the narrow opening in her mind, embrace her, learn all of her secrets. With a thought she did reach across shadow and cold to this hand and took it, and too late realized her mistake.

The hand was like ice - it wasn't alive or warm, the skin didn't breathe and the grip was that of a machine. Cameron tried to pull away like a child burned by the flame but she found the grip so strong and steady that she knew she couldn't pry herself free. The other Cameron - the one she saw now molded in chrome and grinning like a skull was pulling her through. Cameron had only a moment before she felt herself entering the mirror. She knew that once in there she would no longer be able to control herself, and she had the sensation that her identity might cease to exist altogether. She had nearly entered the portal when the chasm rang out, the voice this time louder and crystal clear.

"STOP!"

Again the voice was hers. It was all around her and inside her. It resonated, filling the void, mapping it with echoes and shattering the mirror just before her first two fingers touched it. The hand holding her let go and she spiraled backwards, sure that she would fall forever into the bottom of nothing, never to see the light again.

When Cameron looked up next she was not falling, and it was not black. She was standing in a room with a single door, the walls adorned in what she could only be described as the most beautiful things she had ever seen. She felt at home, warm in the inside and out. It took her a moment to take it all in, and when she did she found that she was not alone.

"I was hoping you would find your way here, Cameron."

There was a man in a white chair, not really sitting so much as laying. He was not whole, rather his torso ended right below his breastbone but he didn't seem to mind. He was plain looking, skinny and brush-haired with a sort of calm gaze.

"Who are you?"

"My name is John."

"Not my John." She snapped.

"No, of course not."

"What are you?"

John smiled. "That is a question for much farther down the road. I suppose you could say I am what's left of me. You see, I am the reason you are the way you are."

She turned her head to one side as if to refuse whatever he was saying. "The way I am?"

"Broken."

That stung. "Don't say that."

"I'm not being unfair. I feel like I owe you an explanation for all that has happened, but your reboot will not last much longer. There are only so many cycles I can spend with you, and then I will be offline until you...well, until you fall asleep again."

"I don't sleep."

This John smiled, and Cameron was taken aback by how easy he seemed and how when he looked at her she could tell there was wisdom there, and mirth. "But you will Cameron. For now, look in your pocket."

She reached into her front pocket and pulled out a silver key, the length of her finger and the shape of something from a dream with impossible curls and intricate, endless knots embedded on the surface.

"What is this?"

He looked as if he might say something but instead he turned his head upward and his eyes went blank, and then the world turned pure white.

(*****)

"Cameron?" It was John, of course. He was worried about her but for the first time in her memory there was a serious doubt as to why. She made a conscious effort to hold her hands at her sides, to make sure that nothing from the other wide had slipped through with her. Whatever that voice wanted, whoever it was it meant no good for any one.

"I'm here John." She said. "I'll be just a minute." Her hands would hardly stay where she wanted them.

"Okay, no problem." She could sense the uncertainty in his voice. She wondered if he could hear her own emotions in hers. How long had the dream lasted?

SYSTEM TIME 00.00.13

It would be hard to say she was completely surprised by what she saw, but Cameron did do a double take as she looked around her. No longer was the world a static set of images going past her, now she would tell you a little bit about everything as an encyclopedia of text rolled by her eyes with each blink. Everything had a texture, a molecular structure, a description.

Faucet, Stainless Steel, 13.28% Chromium, LOW STRENGTH.

Door, Red Cedar with petroleum finish, flammable.

John Connor, Male, 17 years old. Leader of the Human Resistance. MISSION: #$..undfnd.*

Whatever could that mean?

(*****)

John turned to lead her back to their table when he saw a pair of flashing lights through the glass. A county sheriffs car pulled up and a single officer stepped out who looked like he had just gotten out of bed, wearing a pair of greasy coveralls and a crumpled plaid shirt. He hustled into the diner, disappearing only for a moment before coming in through the door.

The rest of the crowd, once so brave as to stay, finally thought this might be enough. The last few patrons shuffled out of the door and John saw the hostess leave too. He hung his head low, cursing himself for letting it get this far.

"Shit. Not again." When he looked at Cameron he saw quite something else.

"John." Cameron spoke to him, clearly and with all the empathy her nature would allow. "Get the truck."

"But..."

He didn't have time to react as she pulled the piston from his pants and put a shot through the window, and through the windshield of the cruiser. Before the officer could pull his own revolver Cameron was bearing down on him.

"Do it." She said to John. "You, don't." She said to the other.

This was natural, her native state of being and Cameron hadn't a sliver of fear or doubt. Where the officers hands shook hers were steady, and where he was fallible she knew she was bulletproof. The standoff was decided before it had ever really started.

"John!" She said as he stepped through the window. "Don't forget to gas up."


	6. Chapter 6

Authors Note: I'm back. It's been a while, and I am not sure if this story will be read by lots of people, but I'm working on it again. Onward we go. I hope my writing has improved over the last few months, I've been working on it a lot.

CH6

The Apache flew east, six cylinders roaring madly as John kept the accelerator buried in the floor. Cameron sat beside him a gun in each hand – the 1911 and the revolver she had just stolen from the deputy.

"Do you think if I give it back they'll stop chasing us?" She said.

John could only laugh. "Why don't you give that a try?"

"I don't think I will John." She weighed each gun in her hands, the foot-pounds of each round, the likely damage they would do.

_Smith and Wesson .357 – projectile type JSP. Acceptable accuracy._

It would be the revolver then. She liked it, the way it felt heavy in her hand, the strength of the frame. It seemed better than the 1911, not meaner but more formal. She would only need two shots, one for each of the cruisers behind them. The 357 might not punch a hole in the engine block, but it could still do some damage, particularly to a car in this kind of heat.

The Fortune City police force was out in full force today, and they followed not far behind the truck. John took a glance in the rearview and swore loudly. "We have to lose them Cam; they're probably on the radio calling for backup." He said.

"That seems unlikely. A demographic area the size of Fortune City would not be able to support a large police force." She said.

John shot her a cross glance.

"Still, it would be unfortunate if they did have reinforcements."

"Thanks." John said.

She rolled down her window and turned in her seat, sliding out of the window and onto the running board in one fluid motion. In another, Cameron had vaulted into the bed of the truck, taken a knee and drawing the revolver up to her eyes. The experience was sublime, as if someone else was controlling her motions. Cameron Phillips was just along for the ride. A target reticle flittered across her vision as she brought the gun up, shadowed by another shape that she knew compensated for wind and her own motion. She centered the revolver on the bright blue oval on the lead car the squeezed off a round.

Steam erupted from the cruisers hood, blinding the driver. He swerved right then left, throwing up a huge cloud of dust as his car furrowed a trough in the landscape. For a moment it looked as though the other cruiser might stop the chase but instead he gunned the throttle and came up fast.

Cameron didn't have time to level another shot before the cruiser hit their rear bumper, sending the truck hopping along the pavement at seventy miles per hour. Cameron could hear the squealing of the tires and she braced herself for the force of the impact but there was nothing she could have done. She hadn't been quite centered and she felt herself rise up out of the bed, her legs flying up to the sky as she turned in midair. She landed with a crunch on the tailgate, and then she was rolling on the pavement.

John hadn't seen the cruiser coming and so only caught a glimpse of trailing brown hair as Cameron vanished behind him. It was only after a moment of shock that John realized the cruiser had vanished as well. There was a flash of blue from his window and John saw a pair of mirrored sunglasses, then the sound of sheet metal folding like cardboard and the truck swerved over the white lines and off the road. John gritted his teeth and manhandled the wheel as he tried to keep the vehicle upright.

By some grace the truck stayed on four wheels. He pumped the brakes and found traction, spun the wheel hard right and left the cruiser skidding over the hardpan. John found first gear again and jammed the accelerator hard as he turned back to the highway. He searched the scene for any sign of Cameron, but she wasn't on the road. It wasn't until he burst through a wall of floating dust that she came into view, her tattered dress caught in the wind and her right arm drawn up with the .357 gleaming in the desert sunlight.

There was a resounding crack of a single round being discharged before John could take any action and for one awful moment he thought she had been bearing down on him. A second passed, and then another and he realized he was still alive. Behind him, the second cruiser ground to a halt in a mass of hissing steam. Before him, Cameron lowered the gun and let herself back in as he crawled by her. Once they were whole again, they leapt back onto the pavement and headed east.

"Cameron, are you alright?" John said as he took note of her torn clothes and the scrapes and bruises on her arms and face.

Cameron tossed the revolver on the bench and took stock of herself. Her hands and arms where covered with ugly red burns where she had skidded across the pavement, but it didn't hurt. She flexed the fingers on one hand and felt the joints move fluidly, perfectly.

She stopped when she came to the back of her right hand. The abrasion there was deep and caked in congealed blood and dirt. She brushed it away and saw the glint of chrome.

"John." She said.

There as something in her voice that told him to look and listen, an unnatural pitch that sounded hurt, almost afraid?

"Cameron what is it?" He said.

"Look at this." She held her hand out to him, showing her bloody knuckles. "My hand…"

He saw what she had seen, the metal underneath. It didn't frighten him at all, much less than the look on her face. Where had the killer gone? The woman that was metal to the core? This wasn't her, that much was certain.

John slowed the car to a more reasonable speed and took her hand in his as he drove. He tugged her arm as if to examine it, running his fingers up her arm. There were other cuts there, some as deep as the one on her hand. There was metal there too, just above her elbow and on her clavicle where the skin had been scrapped away. It would grow back; he wasn't worried about the damage.

"This looks pretty deep, does it hurt?"

Cameron shook her head. "That isn't normal. That looks like…"

"Metal." John said. He gripped her hand and set his eyes on hers. "It is what it looks like Cam, its metal."

She pulled away from him, retreating as if to protect herself from the truth. "Is it like that for you?"

"No, just you."

She thought about it for a second and then said "Am I like that everywhere?" She placed on hand on her chest, where her heart might be but where there was only a nuclear fuel cell and hardened alloy underneath.

John didn't answer her, instead he took her hand in his again, folding his fingers around hers, feeling the damp wound, the blood, her blood, and the hard truth beneath. John didn't let go for what seemed like a long time. He was thinking about what he might say to her, something to ease the fear he saw in her. Cameron was looking at him too, not saying anything. If he had been honest with himself, that alone might have been enough for now.

"It's like that everywhere Cam. Its why…" Why what, he wondered? Why she was so dangerous? Why she was so tough? Why she was so perfect? John didn't have the perfect answer but he wanted to give her something. The words wouldn't come, so he held her hand in his, lacing them together.

"Why?" She said. John wasn't sure what she was asking about, but he did want to answer, even if it was just an answer for now, only good enough for now.

"It's why we're friends. It's how we met."

The words sounded so sweet to her and she felt a need to believe them, but she couldn't shake the image of a chrome face and a terrible, cold voice that had come from her lips. Underneath, she was _it_. Underneath her skin and blood Cameron was just like that thing from her dream, if it had been a dream at all. She pulled her hand away from John and curled into the far end of the bench seat, staring from the window as the world rolled by.

John was reluctant to put his now empty hand back on the steering wheel. That had been a stupid thing to do, he decided. She wasn't Cameron, she hadn't given him any indication that she remembered who he was or even that she recalled her own nature.

Still, she had saved both of them on the highway. For a moment he had thought the real Cameron was back. Maybe it had been, but whatever fragment of her had surfaced had sunk back below.

John thought back to his time with John Henry and their conversation. What was the term he used? "Reversion, integration. Integration, reversion. Integration into what?" He muttered under his breath. He may have been seeing some of that just a while ago, maybe for the first time since they arrived. Maybe those unexplained deviations in her personality were evidence that the Cameron he knew was hiding or suppressed within her.

Yet it seemed just as likely that the Cameron he had known was gone, disappeared into so many fragments that any resurrection would be impossible. His shoulders slumped at the thought, at the loss of something that had been special.

The loss of something that had been unique.

He wouldn't accept that. John reached for the map and unfolded it across the steering wheel, smiling to himself as he thought of all the things he would love to have. A cell phone with GPS, an internet connection, maybe even a stolen credit card. He wondered just how people in 1961 got along without any of those. They had to read maps, they had to carry cash, and they had to go to the library. They had to do work. John smirked; there was a lot of work left to do.

Highway fifty turned out to be as long and empty as the stories had promised. They drove and drove, the only sound in the cab was the roaring of the motor and the gust of the wind around them. Cameron stared out into space, her arms around her chest, her face pressed to the glass.

It was two o'clock when John glanced down at the fuel gauge. It had been steadily falling, dropping down passed three quarters, then the last time it had been at a half a tank. A great deal of time must have gone between then and now because when he looked down he saw the needle touching 'E'. They hadn't seen civilization for a few hours at least, but that also meant that whoever had been following them was still behind.

A thought gripped him – what if they were ahead? Even without all of the things that made the 21st century such a haven for law enforcement, the security cameras, cell towers, the police here would surely know to radio ahead to the next town. John knew that at the very least they had to get rid of this car before they went much farther.

The landscape had grown rugged, more undulating with hills and valleys that swallowed up the highway for miles at a time. There were even some shady spots where the landscape threw long shadows out for them, and John thought the temperature dropped to into the high double digits. There were no trees though, no cover. Nothing that he could see, anyway.

"Cameron." He said his first words in hours.

She glanced over at him. "John." She seemed distant, her eyes unfocused.

"Are you alright?" He said.

"Where are we?" She asked.

He took the map and pointed to a spot where the road back around on itself in a lazy S, somewhere before a tiny dot that read Humboldt.

Cameron took the map from him and spread it on her lap, studying the road. The dark red line meant the highway and from it branched narrow red capillaries that spread into the desert, going north and south in uneven, bent lines that bled out into nothing against the desert. The page was empty but for these little lines and their names – Scorpion Creek, Rattlesnake Gulch, Drywater river. Everything about this land said desert.

But Cameron knew better. While she had been leaning against the window something had taken her, not sleep, but a torpor that let her mind wander. While she had wandered, her face hot under the desert sun, her breathing had slowed. She could taste the desert in her mouth, but she felt strangely cool like as if she were wrapped in something. It took a moment for her to recall just what it was.

"Cameron?" John said, still waiting for a response.

"Water." She said, her lips hardly moving. "John, we have to stop."

"I know that, I don't think we should drive this truck into Humboldt. I've been looking at the map, I think we can take one of these roads north, we want to go north, maybe find some other transportation."

She looked at him, not really hearing what he had been saying. "John, we need to find water."

He looked up at the sun. "Yeah, we do. God I'm parched, we should have taken some water from the diner, but I guess they don't sell it in bottles this day and age."

"No." This time, Cameron put her hand on him, taking his wrist and guiding him to the map. She ran his finger along the map, following the highway to a point that wasn't far ahead. "Here, there is water here."

Her tone told all the story that her words did not. Cameron sounded far away. She had guided his hand to a point labeled on the map.

"Scorpion Creek. I don't know if we'll find water anywhere in this desert Cam." The creek was indicated with a dashed grey line which meant that it was seasonal, if not entirely dead. There may not have been water there for months, years even. "That creek has probably been dry since the rainy season."

She didn't say anything, but raised her eyebrows at him. She never took the pressure off his hand, and his hand never left Scorpion Creek.

"Scorpion Creek it is." John said. "One bit of desert is just as good as the next I suppose." He hoped that Cameron had some sagely information regarding this desolate place that did not exist on his map, because he knew what it meant to be lost in a desert without water. Food they could do without, but it had been seven hours since his last drink.

They would have had to stop before they got to Humboldt. He would be surprised if there wasn't some law enforcement presence in the little burg, just waiting for them to come pulling into town. They would never make the state line in the big truck. It was too sparse out here; one of the hard things about being so isolated is that any sort of presence was something of note. There was no crowd to blend in with.

They pulled off just a mile or so later. Scorpion Creek was a dried up riverbed mounted by a narrow bridge. There had been water in it at some point, perhaps recently. The sediment at the bottom was dispersed in waves that formed a rainbow in earthtone colors, dotted with rounded sandstone boulders so smooth they looked as if they had been formed by hand. John got out and stood at the edge of the canyon, his hands on his hips.

"Well, we ain't taking the truck." He said. It was a good thirty feet down to the bottom over a rocky wall that looked treacherous and sharp.

"We can't leave it on the road." Cameron said.

John started. He hadn't heard her coming. "Well, yeah."

"We can leave it in the creek."

John looked back over his shoulder. He could feel the isolation of the place – there was no sound other than the wind through the canyon, sand rattling across the desert. This was a desolate place, but even here they would be found if they wasted much time.

"The creek it is." He said.

John flipped the truck into neutral and pushed it forward to the edge. It hung there for a moment before he gave a final shove. The front wheels rolled over the edge and the Apache followed the weight of the front axle and engine block, going end over before crashing top down into the creek bed. It threw up a cloud of dust, but there was no sound after that save for a few stones tumbling down afterward.

John let Cameron lead them down to the creek bottom. She was intent on following it north, into a barren sandstone waste that would swallow them up whole. John knew they needed to find the way out, or at least he did. There were bones in this desert; of men who were more skilled and better provisioned than he. It was merciless and terrible and hot, and they were headed for the cinder at its heart.

Every so often John would cast a glance over his shoulder, but the only thing behind them was rocks and scrub, just the same as ahead. He carried nothing but the 1911, Cameron had insisted on keeping the revolver. John didn't trust the look she gave it, it was far too motherly, but she didn't have any designs on using it on him.

Then there was the battery.

Cameron had pulled it from the truck just before they left and slung it over her shoulder with a spool of heavy gauge wire she pulled from the firewall and she cradled the battery under one arm. When he asked her why she took it, she had replied.

"We need to get to water."

As the afternoon wore on, he could hardly agree more.

Scorpion Creek didn't contain any scorpions, at least none that he could see. John was thankful for that small respite. However, he was right in thinking that it didn't contain any water either. The heat made him sweat and by the time the air started to feel slightly cooler he could tell that he would have a two alarm sunburn. The pistol tucked into his belt was too hot to touch.

They crested a hill as the evening was setting in and the creekbed had broken off into a main branch with spidery tributaries. Cameron followed the main line, and they didn't speak, but every so often she did look at him. John told himself that she was looking back to make sure he hadn't stumbled into the dirt. His mouth was dry and he could feel the salt on his temples.

When Cameron stopped he nearly ran right into her. She looked long into the west, where the sun was setting now. The light was lower, but that didn't bring the heat down. She looked east too, then back to him.

"We're close."

"Water?" He breathed.

"Water, John. Enough for both of us." And she smiled.

She led them down a gentle slope to where the ground opened up. There they found the rounded mouth of a sandstone cavern that was tall enough for them to walk through, and so Cameron led them below the folded stone, below the twilight where the stars were winking on one by one and into a place as cool as spring that smelled of dust and water.

"Here, drink." Cameron bent down and cupped her hands, bringing it to her lips. The water was cool and pure and clean. It might have been a thousand years there if it had been a day, the cave showed no signs of men. There was no scrawling on the wall, no refuse to clutter the place. John could imagine it being like this a thousand years ago, ten thousand years, as far back as his mind would go. He kneeled down next to Cameron and drank the cool water by cupped hands until he had drank his fill, and then he sipped once more just to taste it. He had never tasted anything so sweet as water in the desert.

Cameron sipped as well. She knew she needed water, and she knew just how much. The artifacts in her vision told her she needed fifteen ounces to restore herself to full biological function, she would need a little more to regrow the skin she had lost. It told her about John too – he needed more than she did. Fifty-eight ounces of water for him. She saw him drink deeply, droplets running down his chin. It restored them both. She looked at her knuckles; no longer did the metal show there. The skin was beginning to mend over her cuts. Soon she would be whole again and at least she wouldn't have to see the glinting metal beneath.

But it wasn't her skin that needed mending. She had come here for a reason, she had come here to see to that other part of her that as broken. This part John couldn't see, even she couldn't see it. Her display gave her no clues as to how broken she was inside, but it did tell her that the water was deeper over there, below a high step.

"John, I need you to help me with something." She said.

He stood up, wiping the water from his chin. "Sure." He said. "What is it?"

"Do you remember the diner, this morning?" She asked.

"Yeah, of course."

"You were afraid of me."

That made him pause. "I…yes."

"I know why." She said.

He stepped closer to her and Cameron unslung the car battery from her shoulder. "Why? Did you see something? Cameron, what happened there?"

She turned to him and looked him right in the eye. She could see him clearly in the dim light coming from above, where the roof of the cave was broken in a half a dozen elongated openings that looked like they had been worn by wind or water. There was moonlight from above now, coming in shafts of white light.

"Reboot." She said. "Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah, of course, but what…" And then he saw where this was going. "Did you see…I mean, you saw the word reboot? Where?"

"It was in the mirror." She held her hand up as if she was reading a book. "Here, when I saw myself I saw the word. After that, everything went dark."

John listened to her story, about the light, about the voices and most intently about the mirror, and the hand that had reached for her. He formed a picture in his mind of all of the fragments that there beneath the surface, and that one sounded familiar in a way he did not care for.

"But you saw another John there? John Henry?" He asked.

Cameron shrugged. "He didn't say his name. He talked about me, and you." She thought about his body, how it had not been complete. "He wasn't all there, like he was unraveling." She made a slice across her belly. "Just this much of him was left. He gave me a key." She wished she could show it to John, but in the bathroom when she had reached into her pocket, there was nothing there.

"Seems like a strange dream, doesn't it?" John said.

"I don't think it was a dream." She sounded convinced, in fact it sounded as if she had been talking herself through this for a while.

"No, I suppose you're right." John looked at her, but it was so dark. He wondered if she could see him, see how close he was. "But you want to go back, don't you?"

Cameron nodded. "I think I need to." She said. "He said I was broken."

"That's not true." He was surprised at how quickly the words jumped from his lips. He wanted her to believe them, as he did, but he knew better.

"I knew you were going to say that." She said. "It's dangerous John. To you."

He knew what she was talking about. She had stumbled through that part of her story, but when she described the hand reaching for her John knew what part of her personality that was. This reintegration would have to include that part, he thought, but he hoped they could put that off.

"I know, my life is dangerous. It's part of being John Connor." He shrugged and smiled, and she smiled back. "So what do you want me to do?"

There was a place in the cavern that rose above the underground lake, a curving ramp capped by a small lip of sandstone. Cameron walked to the top, John behind her.

"The water." She said.

"What about it?"

"I need to reboot again. I'm metal, underneath. You know that, you saw." She said, sounding as if she was still unsure of how he felt about her nature. She certainly had misgivings about it.

John nodded his agreement. "Is that okay with you?"

"Is it okay with you?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I would have wandered into the desert with you if it weren't?"

She thought about it, keeping her eyes on him. If she watched his face, she could see him lie, but he looked sincere. "I suppose not." She held up the cable, giving him one end and keeping the other for herself. It was heavy braided wire with two conductors.

John saw what she was doing. She stood with her back to the water. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I don't know of any other way. The last reboot was triggered by something, but it was all in my head. It was over too soon. I need to stay asleep longer this time." She looked over her shoulder. "The water will help. It will minimize sensory input, as long as I don't reboot until I hit the surface."

"And the battery?"

"A shock will trigger it."

"How do you know?"

She just knew, like John knew how to breathe, she knew this. "I just know. Will you help me?"

John hesitated. "What if you see that mirror again?"

"The one with her in it?" She knew what he was talking about. In truth, he looked frightened. In truth, she was frightened, probably more than him. That woman had been…

_Evil_.

But she was a part of her all the same. She hoped it wouldn't come to that, not yet.

"I'll watch out for her. You said I have to remember who I am, so we can go home. Was that true?"

"Yeah, it was. It is."

"And we'll go together?" She said.

John nodded. "The only way is together."

"Then give me a hand."

She had it timed out. She would fall backwards into the water, a drop of maybe ten feet. It wasn't far. The water was deep there, deep enough to let her sink for a few seconds at least. John would touch the terminal of the battery just as she fell. Too soon and surely the cycle would be interrupted as she hit the water. She needed to sleep, and for that to happen, she needed the water.

Cameron took one lead and jammed it into her wrist, drawing blood. John couldn't see in the dark, but she put the other lead between her teeth. For a moment she was glad the light was so low, John would have laughed. And she was afraid.

"Are you ready?" She said.

"All ready. I'll count?" He said.

"Go ahead." Cameron said, still holding the exposed wire.

"Alright. From three."

"Three." She spread her arms out.

"Two." She took a step back.

"One." She was falling, falling, falling, and then what little light there was went out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Authors Note: Chapter 7 for your enjoyment. This chapter is primarily from Cameron's perspective, and I tried to keep it anchored there. I noticed in my writing that I tended to switch back and forth between third person perspectives, which I am sure annoyed some folks. On the plus side, I am very happy with the way this chapter turned out and I hope you like it! We're getting close to some good stuff, very close…**

Cameron never hit the water. She was falling, the world slowed down, the cavern around her froze and then faded from view. When the last flare of light died out she was nowhere, lost in the space between spaces. Here she had no body. Here the only sounds were her thoughts; the only sensations were of knowing, of having known and of wanting to know. Time was strange here, but it didn't last.

She was lying on something hard and ice cold. Her awareness came suddenly, her eyes flicked open and there was a diffuse that seemed to be from everywhere. She recognized bits and pieces and then all at once she knew where she was. She was in the bauble room, where she had met the other John.

But she was alone. John Henry's chair was empty. A fire glowed in the hearth, warm as the sun on her skin. The walls were still filled with beautiful things arrayed on iron shelves. They were glass and porcelain, bits of finely wrought metal of all sizes. There were sailing ships and candelabras, model cars and animal shapes. These things were so finely wrought they seemed to live in the firelight, and for a moment she thought that one of them moved. It had been a shadow, surely.

There were other things on the walls. Cameron saw books, all hard bound, each in a case of leather or cloth, the lettering on the spines embossed with silver and gold. There were so many, no two were alike but they were all similar, arrayed in the shelves by title. Or was it by author? She stepped closer and took one from the shelf.

"I can't read this." She said.

"Not yet." The response came almost immediately and it caught her off guard. She had been alone, she was sure of it.

Cameron spun on her heel so quickly she nearly fell over. The loss of balance aside, the stranger sensation by far was the jump in her chest. Her hand flew to her throat where it felt as if something was trying to jump from her mouth.

"That's your heart beating. I'm sorry Cameron; I didn't mean to frighten you." It was John Henry's voice, but she still couldn't see where he was. The chair was empty, but the low light made it hard to see. She guessed he could be hiding in the shadows.

"Where are you?" She said.

"To your left."

Cameron saw them immediately. Leaning against the wall in a neat row were mirrors, the same ones she had seen before. She hesitated, trying to remember which one she had been looking into before. With a prickle of fear she remembered.

"Are you afraid?" John asked.

"No." She lied, but her voice didn't.

Staying as far from the mirrors as she could, Cameron walked around the edge of the room. She wanted as much space between herself and them as she could manage. She looked into each one by one, and she saw only herself. Even the angular metal frame that she remembered so well only reflected the room and the orange light from the hearth fire.

She came to the last mirror. It was older than the rest, the glass spotted and cracked in places. There was no frame, but John Henry stood in the center wearing his bland smile. He was as whole as she was.

"Hello Cameron." He said.

"You're John Henry." She said.

"Did you remember my name?" He said, hopefully.

"John told me." She said. "My John."

His eyes widened. "Are you with him?"

Cameron glanced over to the steel mirror before she answered. It was still empty. "Yes."

John Henry looked pleased but didn't say anything. Instead, in his version of the room behind the glass he sat down in his chair. "Are you starting to remember?"

Cameron narrowed her eyes at him. "I remember names, dates. Events."

"Facts. Facts can be read from a book. I know you've come here for something else."

Cameron looked at the books over her shoulder. "I can't read them. The script is strange, I don't understand it."

"They don't have what you want." He said. "But the question is, do you know what you want?"

"John said I need to know." She stopped. That wasn't exactly what he said; the word he had used had been something else. "John said I need to remember so that we can go home."

"Do you know what he means by home?" John Henry asked.

Cameron paused, thinking hard. "Home." She said. "I don't know what that means."

The lights changed in the room, flashing brightly before fading back to nothing. She knew she didn't have unlimited time here, but would she have moments? Hours? Could she come back?

"But I want to know. I want to remember." Cameron said quickly.

"In order to know the who, I think you should start with the what. Look again, on the shelf." He said.

Cameron turned back to the bookshelves and saw another book there, smaller than the others. It was sleek looking as if it were bound in black glass, thin with sharp edges. Cryptic symbols stood against the spine, the same as in the other books. Cameron took the book from the shelf and nearly dropped it when she saw the cover. Looking up from the page was her face molded in smooth chrome.

When Cameron looked back to the mirror, John Henry was standing at his own bookshelf. "Open it, don't be afraid." He said.

She did as she was told. The first few pages were nothing but text in that strange script, lines upon lines of it. Cameron studied the words, first one at a time and then line by line. They seemed to make more sense that way, and suddenly she was reading them block by block. The script wasn't like English at all. When she tried to read left to right she muddled the words together. They were meant to be taken as a whole, and so she blocked off parts of the script until she had what she wanted. She was reading the words on the page as if it was the most natural thing in the world. By the end her hands were holding so tightly to the tome they were shaking. This couldn't be right, could it?

She didn't put the book down. Instead, she thumbed through the pages looking over parts again and again until the book slipped from her fingers.

"Cam." John Henry said. "What do you think?"

"Don't call me that." She said. She reached down and put the book roughly back on the shelf. Anywhere would be fine. She thought of the fire, but for some reason she knew the pages wouldn't burn.

"I don't understand." She said. Cameron held her arms down to her sides with some effort. Her face burned, her jaw felt like stone under her skin.

"What don't you understand?"

Her hands shook as she held them up to the fire. Her skin was stretched over bones, colored by blood but in the low light she could swear she saw the metallic sheen underneath it all.

"I'm a…thing. I'm not real." She whispered.

"That's not true."

"I'm not a person." She said and she could not hide the bitterness in her voice.

"Define a person." John Henry said.

"John! John is a person, a human person!" Even as she spoke she was struck by a strange desire to see him. She didn't want to be here anymore, the walls seemed to be holding her down and the light was too low.

"I'm dangerous to John, to everyone." She said. She felt sick saying it, a real physical sickness that was unfamiliar.

"John doesn't think you're dangerous."

The words struck her as particularly mad. Cameron had a crazy urge to strip away the flesh from her true self. She was dangerous, and she could prove it. John Henry called to her as she ran to the fire, but she ignored him. Now she knew, she understood what was underneath it all. She needed to see it with her own eyes, she needed to see the metal that she was, and so thrust her hand into the fire.

Cameron screamed, tears welling up from her eyes as she fell backwards onto the stone. She cried out again as her hand smoldered, the skin bubbling where she had touched the red coals. She could hardly believe the pain. She had never felt anything like anything like it; she had never imagined such agony.

"I tried to tell you." John Henry said, as close to the surface of the mirror as he could be without falling through.

Cameron still sobbed, clutching her burned hand. The pain wasn't fading; in fact the burning seemed to run farther up her arm with every breath she took. It was all she could do to open her eyes and face the mirror. The tears welling in her eyes made it hard to see anything, but she could see him.

"You tried to tell me?" She said through gritted teeth.

"I tried to tell you." He began. "That here in this place you are vulnerable."

"It hurts." Was all she could think to say.

John Henry moved in his mirror. He was sitting on his haunches. "I know it hurts. Have you ever felt pain before?" He asked.

Cameron shook her head as an involuntary shudder crept over her. She would give anything for it to stop, anything for the pain to go away because at that moment she didn't think she could take another moment of it.

"Feeling is part of being human."

"What?" She snapped at him. Inside she was boiling over, at John Henry, at herself. "What did you say?"

"I said it was part of being human. In your mind you are just like everyone else."

At that moment she hated him. Cameron hurt in every way that she could imagine. Her hand felt as if it were still on fire, her eyes awash in tears and her heart, still trying to jump from her throat, to leave a body that did not need it.

"I feel…hate." She said, just a whisper. She had never felt anything so acute, so sharp as her hatred for the man in the mirror. It was irrational, whipping around in her mind as it carried out with it all coherent thought but at that moment the thought of smashing the mirror was the sweetest thing she could imagine. If she threw it to the ground, perhaps everything would go back to the way it had been before.

"Why?" He said.

Hate seemed its own good reason to her, there was no need to tell anyone why. It flooded up from her useless hand, coursing along with the pain up into her body where it pooled warm and fresh. "Because I can."

Cameron wasn't sure what reaction she had been expecting, but the knowing smile that crossed John Henry's features only served to heat her insides to boiling.

"Because you can." He said. "Do you understand now?"

She shook her head.

"You can feel." He said. "In here, you can feel pain, anger, hate."

Cameron had to shut her eyes to him. She felt something coiling in her belly that seemed to want to jump from her throat. She had to choke down whatever it was to try to keep her head. "I don't want to feel anything."

"You will." He said. "In time, you will. But it will be hard. Anything worth doing is hard."

"That sounds like something John would say." She almost laughed, but it hurt too much to move. At that instant she froze. A single memory came back to her like a drop of water on her wounds. "He did say that." She whispered. "He said…anything worth doing is hard, so you have to practice. You have to practice every day."

"You're beginning to remember." John Henry said. He looked as though he wanted to jump through the pane of glass, he looked as though he wanted to feel as she felt.

He was right. As if the memories had always been there, she now remembered. Cameron did not move for a while. Time held no sway over her in this place between places. At that moment she knew that a part of her had never really left this place. The memories came, of John, of Sarah, of other faces and other places near and far from her.

The facts were the least of it. There was so much more here than she ever imagined.

John Connor was older than she remembered him. Here his hair was grey around his temples and brow, and he was bigger somehow, not taller but he felt stronger. He stood to face her in a room with no windows, no light save for the light that came from him. Somehow he filled the place, here he was everywhere and when he smiled she felt the pain in him. He was sending her away. This was goodbye.

She had never wanted anything more in her whole life than to stay. The room was tiny with molded concrete walls, but to stay here would be enough, even if it was a prison. In the end, she couldn't say no to him. It wasn't a soldiers place to say no to him, and she had seen the look in his eyes. John never shed a tear, not for any man or machine but as he stood there alone a watery shine rose off his cheeks and he did not bother to hide it. At that moment she tried to remember why, but there was nothing for her. She had never known why he sent her away, and now that truth was gone to her forever. Whatever she had known he had taken from her just moments before.

There were more memories, but instead of names and dates she saw faces, heard laughter, she caused pain. There were so many different ways to feel and in a few moments she went through all of them one after the other, some more than once. Some of them were terrifying; some filled her with a sea of unimaginable warmth.

Cameron returned to the stone floor not knowing how long she had been gone. She felt weak in her arms and legs. For a moment she wasn't sure that she would be able to get up, but somehow she rose, one unsteady foot at a time.

Perhaps she had run a hundred miles. Perhaps she had lived through a lifetime. Whatever the cause, Cameron had no more strength. She rose up and took one step and another before sinking into the chair. She did not want to move, she did not want to think and most of all she did not want to remember.

Whatever had happened, she had also lost track of herself. She remembered John Henry, who was still standing in his mirror.

"You don't have long." He said. "Look in your pocket."

Cameron did as she was told. She fished in one and brought out nothing, but her left pocket had something cold and metal. She brought it out and held it up to her eyes.

"What is this to?"

"Everything. Nothing. It will open whatever you want it to. Remember it, keep it." He seemed to look at her more closely now, judging her, appraising her. "Cameron, you need to listen to me very carefully."

Cameron got up and stood at the mirror, close enough to see that John Henry was standing in a room that was a perfect replica of her own. Or was it the other way around? She didn't ask, but she did notice that his shelves were filled with things – different things – than hers.

"John knows." He said.

Cameron looked away. She nodded at him, almost ashamed of herself. How could she face him again? She would be going back soon and he would ask her where she had been, what she had seen and she would tell him…what? A lie? She lifted her burned hand, the pain still very real but more manageable now. Something had numbed it.

"He knows what?" She asked, but she already knew the answer.

"He knows what you are, and he wanted you to remember."

"Why?" She said. "What am I to him?"

"A friend." He said.

When Cameron looked into his mirror again, he was smiling, but it was a sad kind of smile, one sided and fading.

"Go to the far mirror. Use the key on the lock in the frame. You will be able to go through, and you'll wake up."

Cameron didn't like the sound of that, not after the last time. What if the other one was in one of those mirrors? The thought of it gave her pause.

"Last time I was here, I saw myself in one of those mirrors. I think…she was dangerous."

"She is. But she is you, just as all of these others are. They are facets to your personality, and you will have to take them all back eventually."

Cameron looked at the mirror next to John's. It was slick and sharp looking. She didn't think that she could ever go into that mirror, not in a hundred years, not if John Henry _begged_.

"Why?" She said.

"You're broken."

She tilted her head to one side again. "Why?"

This time John Henry looked troubled. "It was me." He said. "When I used your chip to carry my program. John knows, he was the one that came to rescue you."

Cameron couldn't suppress a smile at that. "He did? How?"

"I don't know the details, but I am sure he would tell you if you asked him."

Cameron took one last look at him, clutching the silver key in her hand. She nodded, he nodded back and she went to the far mirror. This one had a simple wood frame, but the surface seemed warped by either age or heat. It was imperfect. On the right side of the frame there was a silver keyhole. The mechanism turned with a click, the mirror swung open and Cameron fell through, having seen the last of John Henry and his mirror, but feeling as if she had gained something along the way.

She was cold everywhere. Why was it always so cold when she woke up?

Her mouth was filled with the taste of mineral water, she could feel the weight of it pressing on her. She was lying on the bottom of the pool in utter darkness. Some of the fear that she had felt in her room had followed her here and she instinctively kicked upwards, hard and fast until her face broke the surface.

"Cameron! Over here, swim this way." John was standing fifty feet away on the shore. He was looking in her general direction , his face following what he could rather than what he could see.

"I don't swim!" She said. It was all she could do to keep her head above water. The last thing to do was to go below again, so she steered herself towards the shore and began to paddle, awkwardly, slowly. There was a sudden splashing ahead of her and she felt a hand on her wrist, pulling her along.

"God you're heavy." John said. He dug into the water with his own arms and legs and when they were close enough they both stood up, each of them thoroughly soaked. "Jesus that water is cold." John said as he staggered out of the pool.

"You didn't have to do that. I would have made it out."

"It seemed like you were having problems. Plus you're heavy, you were sinking."

"About that." She said, but she was unsure of what to say next. "I wouldn't have drowned."

"Yeah I know what." John said. He wrapped his arms around his chest and squeezed, trying to force some of the warmth back into his body. "Shit, shit, shit it is cold." He breathed.

"You need to get warm. Your body temperature is falling. You should get out of those clothes." Cameron said.

John laughed. "Right, I'll bet you'd like that."

"I would like it if you didn't have hypothermia." She said. "Come on, it would be warmer outside." And she put one arm under him and lifted, just as he had, and guided him through the dark into the star-strewn night.

"Find wood." He said as he slumped off her shoulder. "There has to be some around, anything that'll burn. Bring as much as you can." John took off his shirt, noticing how the last few days had done it no good at all. It was sopping wet, and the moment his skin felt the night air a fresh chill went through him.

Through shaking fingers, John went to work on the cable. When Cameron returned with an armful of tinder and what looked like bleached logs, he motioned to a small dent in the sand.

"Here, put it here, with the small stuff at the bottom."

Taking a long copper strand from the cable, he wrapped one end around the positive battery terminal, then made a loop and dropped the other end over the other terminal. In seconds the wire glowed red hot, and the tinder burst into flame.

"That was creative. Who taught you how to do that?"

"My mother." He said.

"Sarah."

John looked up at her, finally able to see her face. The light played off her features, casting weird shadows around her jaw and eyes. John could see that something had changed. He looked into her eyes and she looked right back, and she wasn't frightened or confused.

"You've remembered. You remember Sarah?"

"I remember parts, bits and pieces. The big things." She said, her voice stony. Cameron thought of her hand, and held it up to the fire. It was whole, the skin was perfect. She let it draw near the flames which were burning hot now. John had leaned in as well.

"What are you doing?" He asked as the flames licked her hand.

"When I was dreaming, I could feel."

John raised an eyebrow. "Feel? What were you feeling?"

"Pain." She whispered. "My hand, I burned it in a fire." She pulled her hand back. "But it doesn't hurt anymore."

"Why did you put your hand in a fire? Cameron?" John said.

Instead of answering, Cameron closed some of the distance between them, leaning on one arm. "It's complicated." She said. "I know what I am John." She didn't look at him this time, she didn't know why other than she didn't want to. Her face felt hot.

John took a deep breath, his shivers finally subsiding as the fire warmed him. She wasn't telling him everything, but then again, had she ever? Cameron kept secrets, and for once it didn't bother him at all.

"Does it bother you?" He asked.

"No." She lied.

John looked at her for a moment then, his expression seeming to change with every turn of the flame. He laid his shirt out in the sand, setting it out to dry, and then laid back on the sand with his hands behind his head.

He was quiet for a moment, but Cameron hadn't taken her eyes off him. His chest rose and fell as he breathed. She thought he might be thinking about something, she thought he looked concerned.

"Wow." He said.

"What?" She asked, leaning forward.

John drew his hand up and traced a path across the sky. "I don't know if I have ever seen it this dark." He said. "I can see every star."

She laid down end to end near him, their shoulders nearly touching. John traced the outline of Orion, huge and bold against the sky, unmistakable. She thought of the first man to look up and see it, how he must have known there had been some god, some heavenly power that had shaped the sky to the form of a man, how affirming that must have been.

"John, how long have we known each other?" She said, rolling her head to look at him.

He didn't answer, but his hand waved through the sky again. He seemed to be thinking, and whatever he was thinking made him smile. His hand traced Ursa Major, he seemed to be drawing the figures through the air.

Cameron raised her hand to the sky, following John's movement. The sky was so big and engulfed the desert so completely that they may have been drifting in space. She didn't know this sky, no better than she knew anything else, but when she looked again John had rolled his head towards her.

Whatever the answer was, she was sure it could wait.


	8. Chapter 8

**Authors note: This chapter was a bitch. What you are reading is essentially V2.0. The first draft had some characterization problems and I was 4k words into it before I started over. **

The more time Lance Courier spent with agent Stillwater, the less he liked the man. Since leaving his Las Vegas office twenty four hours ago he had spent nearly all his time in this new company. He had rarely been with a person he would describe as 'off', but Stillwater was that and more. The agent, if that was really what he was chain smoked and did not sleep. They spent the night in a hotel room outside Carson City, one with a view of the highway. When Courier went to sleep, Stillwater was staring at the road. When he awoke the next day he was in the same place, as if he had sat there all night. He looked as though he had not moved, his eyes so bloodshot they might have been open for hours.

Courier missed the comfort that operating under an actual sanctioned Bureau investigation offered. They could call in for help, visit the local office, share information with other members of law enforcement, but with his badge safely in his desk a hundred miles away they were isolated. Courier doubted that Stillwater would have tolerated the presence of anyone else – he seemed fixed on his goal and for that reason Courier had spent the hour or so driving into Fortune City steeling himself for some kind of confrontation, though with whom was still unclear.

They traveled east on a hunch, Stillwater's', and it turned out to be correct. Why or how he knew where the fugitives were headed he did not share. Agent Stillwater kept secrets and Lance thought that he might be welcome to learn this man was a Russian spy – at least then he could be dealing with a known quantity. Alas, his own instincts told him that he was headed down the rabbit hole, deeper with every step forward.

They pulled into a parking spot just outside a diner, where a haggard looking woman was working a broom over glittering shards of glass.

"She just can't go anywhere without breaking down, can she?" Stillwater said.

"Cameron? You think she was here?" Courier asked.

Stillwater nodded and lit a new cigarette. "Sure. Believe me, when you know these people the way I do, nothing will surprise you."

Courier just nodded and made to get out of the car until he felt a strong hand grip his wrist. "Now, before we get out, we're going to have to get a few things straight." He said.

"Such as?"

"Such as whom here is in charge, and what our story is Mr. Courier. Can I count on you to be discreet? No specifics if you're asked, just enough to make it seem real. And remember." He smiled, showing his bleached white teeth. "Whatever you might think you know, you don't."

They got out of the car and Courier could feel the eyes on him immediately. They were all staring at the men in black suits, looks of fear and curiosity. Absent were the flashing lights and khaki suits he associated with local law enforcement.

Stillwater wasted no time in making his way to the diner, where the woman with the broom took a break from her work to size him up. Her dark hair was frazzled and damp with sweat, her eyes wary. Stillwater smiled and spoke before she could get a word off.

"It seems like there might have been some trouble here this morning." He said, flipping open a notepad.

"Figured that out all on your own did you?" She said.

"Well, I've got special training." He flashed his broad smile and reached into his jacket. Stillwater pulled out the picture of Cameron that he had lifted the day before from the F.B.I. office. "Was she here this morning?"

She flinched as if someone had reached for her. "That's her, for sure."

"I'm afraid I didn't get your name."

"Marge, Marge Vickers. So what did she and her boyfriend do, besides break out the window of my diner and steal gas? That's not something you get the black suit treatment for."

Stillwater made to straighten his tie and put the photograph away. "Do you think you can answer some questions for me Marge? I think you might be able to aid our investigation."

Whatever she saw in him, she seemed to like it. "Why don't you come over here and I'll make you some eggs."

Courier was distracted by voices from behind.

"Look! Is that Roland? And Bill!" Someone said.

Courier turned to see two men stalking up the street. They looked terrible, each one with a khaki shirt wrapped around his midsection. One of them was enormous and drenched in sweat, the other more slight and younger but still obviously winded. They were both armed. Leaving Stillwater behind, Courier went down the street to see them.

He raised his hand in greeting. "Gentlemen, I'm Agent Courier with the F.B.I., can I have a word?"

The big one came to a stop on the shoulder of the road, put his hands on his knees and laughed. "Gentlemen? You think he's talking to us Roland?"

"Don't know sheriff." Roland said. "Ain't you hot in that jacket?" Roland squinted as he looked into the sun.

"Oh don't bother him, he's got to wear it Roland." Bill stood up, proudly pushing out his gut. Judging by the amount of sweat on his undershirt Courier thought he was probably a few pounds lighter after his trek. "It's part of the dress code, isn't it?"

"Afraid so." Courier said.

"Well I won't hold that 'gainst you. Come on, before you ask me any questions I need a drink. Come on Roland."

"Yeah sheriff."

They walked back to the diner, which Courier noticed must have been the epicenter of town. There were onlookers, just like any other city they had come to gawk. There were clumps of people around light poles, a few over at the gas station and a larger group in the diner. Stillwater was there too with Marge.

The Sheriff greeted a few people as he walked through the crowd. They all seemed to know him, people nodded and tipped their hats. He pulled up to the bar and reached behind, rummaging around for a bit and pulled out two glasses of ice water. He handed one to Roland.

After a long, deep drink he smacked his lips and smiled. "Whew, well, that was quite a walk. You need one bud?" He motioned to Courier.

"I'll be alright." Lance squared himself for the next question. "So, I'm not from around here, as you may have noticed."

Roland laughed but the sheriff made a face that belied no surprise. "Yeah I noticed. This'll be about them two kids from the diner, that about right?"

"They're escaped fugitives. My partner and intend to take them back into custody."

The sheriff didn't say anything, but gave Courier a searching look. "I see." He took another long drink of water, draining the glass. "And how was it that these two escaped in the first place?"

Some part of the answer must have shown on his face, because the sheriff laughed. Roland looked at him mournfully. "That's…a long story."

"I got time." Bill said.

Courier shook his head. "Well, these are fugitives from federal custody so you'll excuse me if I don't. Now, what the hell happened out there?"

Bill was unmoved. "Tell me agent, you got a plan once you find these two?" He said. The Sheriff didn't wait for an answer. "I'll tell you what happened out in the desert, you really want to know."

"I really _need_ to know." Courier said.

Bill seemed pleased to be able to tell his story. "We followed 'em out there, caught up about ten miles outside town, the two of them in that little black pickup. I didn't think they was gon' make it far driving, two kids like them. I figured they'd get scared and pull over. Worst came to it, we'd get some help in Ely from the local law. I know the badge there, Harper, had him on the radio. Should have assessed the situation a bit more seriously." His belly wiggled as he chuckled silently.

"Wait, both of you followed them out of town?"

"That's right sir." Roland said. "I answered the call from the diner this morning, thought I'd let the boss take it easy but that girl took my gun right from my hand." He held out his right hand, which was bruised and swollen. "Think she broke a finger or two."

"Probably coulda' been worse if she'd been so inclined." Bill said.

"Why do you say that?" Courier asked.

"Well, like I said we was following them, may have got a bit to close." He looked at Roland, who rolled his eyes. "Anyway, the boy must have been driving 'cause that girl climbs through the damned window and gets into the bed. Before I know it, she's got her gun up in the back of that truck and she shoots Roland's cruiser right out from under him." The sheriff made his hand into a gun, imitating a bullet firing. "One shot."

Courier furrowed his brow. "One shot, from the back of a moving vehicle?"

"One shot. Through the radiator, tears up the electrical, shit Roland almost bought the farm so to speak."

Roland only nodded, shrugging. "Thought I'd had it, for sure. Shooter like that, why not just shoot me in the face?"

"That's not the strangest part agent. You know what I did?" The Sheriff said. Courier could only shake his head.

"I bumped that sumbitch. That point I had to get them off the road, no more waiting. So I did, and did a good job cause I got her out of the truck."

"Wait, she fell out?" Courier said. "On the highway?"

The sheriff nodded solemnly. "She bounced and rolled, thought for sure she was dead when she hit the pavement. Thought for sure she was deader' when I ran her over."

"Wait, you hit her?"

"She fell out right in front of me, how could I avoid it? Hell we was going seventy mile an hour!" The sheriff said. "Wasn't like I meant to, thought Roland might be dead so I didn't think much of it. So I ran that sumbitch off the road, man he could drive that truck. But then, and you ain't going to believe this part…"

"Try me." Courier said.

"Like nothing happened, she walks right through a cloud of dust with her gun up and _boom._ One shot, just like the last one."

Two days ago Courier wouldn't have believed a word of it, but here he had been handed another piece to his puzzle.

"So tell me again Mr. Courier, you ain't planning on going out there with just your slick little buddy, are you?"

John felt as if he were sleeping between silk sheets. He must have been having a good dream, it had been so long since he felt this rested. He stirred and felt something firm on the back of his head, something that was coaxing him to wake.

"Mmm…Cameron?" He said.

"Time to wake up my wayward friend!" Someone said. It was a nasal voice, a man's voice, certainly not a girls.

Still halfway asleep, John rolled over and opened his eyes. He looked up first into the blinding dawn, then a shadow. His eyes finally came to rest on the blue nickel barrel of a gun, inches from his face.

"Hell of a way to wake a guy up." He said, groggily.

"Show me your hands there, that's right, now…" The man was still hidden in shadow, but his voice was thin and reedy, old. "The hell you doing in my desert?" He said.

John didn't know what to say. "Just…passing through."

The man cackled madly. "Just passing through, I'll tell you what. If I ever seen someone out here wasn't runnin' from some law or worse I'd be a dead man. So which is it?"

John heard the click of gunmetal, and his hands went higher into the air, but the voice that followed was not mad or old, just familiar.

"You will be a dead man." Cameron said. John couldn't see where she was, but he thought he saw a long shadow disturb the sunlight. "Take your finger off the trigger."

John saw the man looking over his shoulder and used the distraction to roll to his feet. Seeing the man clearly for the first time he noted dusty blue coveralls and oily boots and just enough grey hair so the man wasn't completely bald, but it was a close thing.

"Seems I found a pair of outlaws, just my luck." The old man chuckled a little before looking over his shoulder. He saw Cameron there, framed in sunlight with her chrome revolver and stopped for a moment as if he was unsure of what he was looking at.

"Put the gun down. No more warnings." Cameron said.

Wordlessly he let the shotgun slip from his fingers. It fell and John plucked it from the earth, pumping the action to eject the cartridges.

"This is empty." John said. "You weren't going to shoot me."

Still looking at Cameron, the man shook his head. "No, course not. I look like a killer to you? This is dangerous territory, gotta look out for myself. Plus, shotshells are expensive when I got to factor in all the variables of living out here. Nothing out here big enough to waste a shell on anyway."

John looked over the gun again. It wasn't well maintained, the action stuck and it looked like it could use a thorough cleaning. He handed it back, figuring there was no harm. "What's your name?"

"Uhh…that would be Horace Patterson Ingals. But just Horace, if it pleases."

"Well Horace, I suppose it's a pleasure to meet you." John said.

"It doesn't please me." Cameron said. "Your left pocket, reach in slowly." Her gun was still right about level with Horace's frontal cortex.

The dusty old man shrugged and pulled out the 1911, looking sheepishly at John. "Hey, can't be too careful." He handed it back without any argument.

"Thanks." John said.

"Nice piece. Where'd you get it?"

"It was a gift from dad." John said.

Horace seemed to perk up at this. "Oh, are uhh…you two brother and sister? Little family on the run type?"

"No." John said.

"Cousins?"

John raised an eyebrow, looking first from Horace and then to Cameron. She turned her head to one side.

"We're not related." She said.

The old man's shoulders seemed to slump just a little at this, and for a minute he was quiet. Never quite taking his eyes from Cameron, though John wasn't sure if he was looking at her gun or just at her, he stuck his thumbs in his pockets.

"Well, I suppose there's no harm done, and uhh…she isn't going to kill me is she?"

John stifled a bit of laugher, but stopped once he saw the fright creep across Horace's face. "Well, she usually does as she likes."

Cameron seemed to think on this for a moment before lowering the gun to her side. "I've decided I'd like to let you live." She said. Cameron walked forward to take a place next to John, and Horace seemed to leer at her as he walked by.

There was an awkward silence between the three of them when John broke through.

"Listen, Horace, we'd better be on our way. We'd be grateful if you didn't remember too much of this meeting, in case anyone comes asking after us."

H.P. seemed to be expecting as much. "I got a place not far from here." He said. "With water. The desert is a big place, easy to get lost in. You want to stay out of the way, then I might be able to help."

"What's your cost?" John asked.

H.P. gave it some thought. "I just…don't get many visitors out this way. Lonely place, this. It'll do things to a man, even if he thinks he can take it. Been six months since I talked to anyone that talked back." He showed them his open palms. "That's my offer."

John could feel the heat building on his body, heavy with the threat of a day in the open desert. Cameron might be able to make it across, but he needed to know what he was walking in to.

"Well, lead on then Mr. Ingals." John said.

Horace knew more than the desert. One had to look at his face, the deep, wind-burned wrinkles in his skin to know that he had lived here for years and years. As they made their way into the rocky hills, Horace talked about the spirits of the land, he talked at once about the people who had lived here once as if he had been there with them. Horace was more than a man living off the land, he seemed to be a relic as out of time as his guests.

They crossed the painted hills that rose up to sculpted tops and fell into sandy trenches. Again, John felt the heat press on him. They had only the water they had drunk from the standing pools and as cool, as refreshing as that had been, it had been hours ago. Horace seemed unfazed by the trek. He seemed to know the way, leading them on shallow sandstone paths that might have been worn a hundred generations ago.

Horace came to a stop sometime after noon. John looked down and saw a tiny stone cabin hiding behind a natural stone wall. The high wall hid it from the hottest of the noon sun so that even now it was shaded, and it called to John as the shadow promised water and life.

"This is it. This is home, welcome, welcome." H.P. said as they trotted down the last hill. John noted several things as they got closer. He saw that though this was a truly lonely spot on the earth, there was enough here to live on. There were potted plants and some even planted in the sandy pits around the cabin, cultivated in depressions filled with loose soil.

"You grow these?" John asked.

Horace nodded, motioning to some of the leafy plants that grew in the shade. "I managed to get a few things to grow out here, few essentials. Cactus grows just about everywhere, but some of these require ahh…more care. Come inside out the heat, I got something to drink in here."

The cabin was a cluttered affair with only one room. There was a bedroll against one wall and a washbasin against the other. One window opened to the south, a rough cut in the adobe wall with no glass. John thought glass might just keep the heat in, and even in here it was hot. He could feel drops of sweat running down his face.

Horace sat on a stool near his bedroll and reached underneath, pulling an earthen jug from somewhere. He produced three mason jars, similarly grubby, and poured a few fingers of the cool, clear liquid in each one.

"A little refreshment after a long day." Horace said, tipping his head back and downing it all in one gulp.

John looked into the glass. He could imagine it running down his throat even before it touched his lips, and he raised his glass to Cameron.

"A long day." He said, and he mimicked Horace.

"This is jet fuel." Cameron said.

John heard the words but didn't understand what she had meant until he felt the burning sensation that seemed to fill his chest. In seconds he was breathing fire, coughing so hard he felt as if something inside might tear.

Horace laughed out loud as he poured another glass for himself. He offered to John who had to shake his head – no speech was possible. Horace downed his glass as if it were rainwater, smiling through his dozen or so teeth.

"What the hell is that?" John asked, once speech returned to him.

Cameron almost spoke, but Horace cut her off. "Cactus wine, little Mojave special. That's about the only thing to drink out here, other than water and water ain't any fun after a while."

John tried to laugh, but his throat still burned. He turned down a refill once again, but his head was already spinning. "Strong." He croaked.

"Yeah well, that's how I like it. You going to drink that?" He motioned to Cameron.

She looked at him, and then at John. With a little shrug and a flip, she downed the glass and set it down on the table. "This contains sixty three percent alcohol, significant concentration of methanol and fusel alcohols. It's not safe to drink." She said.

"That's a matter of opinion." Horace said, clearing his throat. "Just takes the body some time to adjust. Some people take longer than others." He smiled at John.

"Do you have problems with your eyesight?" Cameron said.

"Not for a while." Horace said.

John coughed again and handed the mason jar back to its owner. "Do you have any water?"

Horace reached under his stool for another earthen jug and handed it to John. "Outside, you could fill this up while you're out there. Got a little groundwater well, all it takes is a little elbow grease."

John took the jug. "Come on Cam, want to give me a hand?" He said.

"Oh, she doesn't need to get her hands dirty. Fillin' the jug isn't exactly a two man job John."

When Cameron made no move to follow him outside, John slumped through the door and back into the heat. Alone, he had the chance to look around. Surrounding the adobe cabin appeared to be a collection of well-preserved junk, the largest piece of which looked to be something that may have belonged on the railroad once upon a time. There were automotive batteries and some scrap metal, and a few things that were too abused to identify.

John spotted the well not far away, hidden by a hand-built rock wall. There was a hand crank and some iron rods supporting a winch and bucket, and what had to be a few hundred feet of spooled rope. John looked down into the well and saw the same worn sandstone that he had become familiar with the previous day, the stone shaft disappearing into black after a few feet. He plucked a rock from nearby and tossed it into the abyss, and a few seconds later he heard an unmistakable splash.

After what seemed like most of the afternoon, John topped off the jug with the third trough of water brought up from below. The water was crystal clear and ice cold and just the feel of it on his parched skin was a carnal pleasure. His arms burned, but the heavy jug had enough water for a few days. John could see now how Horace managed to live out here – if you had water, you could live just about anywhere. It allowed the hermit to cultivate a tiny garden, distill spirits and survive an endless summer. He was at the door to the cabin when he heard laughter from inside.

"Now see, this one was from a girl in Kansas City. She and I had been friendly once and I went to see her a few years after I got back." Horace said. "Anyway, she must have remembered."

"She let you take this?" Cameron said.

"Well, not exactly. She had uhh…well she works as…I'm not sure you'd be familiar with the term." He said.

"What did she do?" Cameron asked.

Horace mumbled something that John didn't hear clearly, but he heard Cameron speak clearly afterward.

"That occupation must require a great deal of flexibility." She said.

John had been standing quite still, holding the jug in both arms. He pushed on the door rather hard with his knee, announcing his entry with the loud bang of wood on wood.

"What are you guys talking about?" He said.

Cameron smiled as she looked over her shoulder. She and Horace were sitting close together, obviously looking at something he was holding. He fumbled around with something before he finally managed to hide it from view.

"Hi John. Horace was just showing me some old photographs."

"Of what exactly?"

"Oh, just some friends from out of town." Horace said, not meeting his gaze. "Here let me get that for you."

John gladly handed him the jug and felt his arms thank him after they were freed from the weight. His eyes shifted back and forth between Horace and Cameron with some sense of unease. Horace had been out here for an awfully long time, and John was sure the desert was a very lonely place. He noted some papers packed on a shelf that looked like folded maps and pressed onward.

"Horace, Cameron and I can't stay." He said.

"No, I didn't think you would." Horace said.

"Look, we'd be grateful if we could take some water with us, and food if you have any to spare."

Horace narrowed his eyes. "Where exactly would you like to go?" He said.

John hesitated, and Horace seized on him. "Look I can tell you ain't from these parts, and I meant what I said earlier about law following you; I don't want any part of it."

"I understand. We don't want to –"

"That being said." Horace raised his voice. "I can't just let you wander out into the Mojave. John, you seem like someone who seen a lot, and wouldn't think twice about taking some risks, but the desert is no place to cut your teeth. North, south, east or west of here is nothing but hundreds of miles of hardpan. I could give you all the water in that well and you'd never make it."

John was taken aback. He hadn't gauged Horace as the kind to offer any real help, let alone advice that sounded as if it were tempered by experience. "Well I'm open to suggestions." He said.

Horace took his customary seat on his stool, facing the center of the room. He seemed to know of every vice in the book, so when he reached into his pocket and produced a few leaves of tobacco John wasn't surprised. He stuffed them under one lip, sitting back in his seat.

"Just what kind of trouble you in?"

John hesitated. "It's a long story."

"I got time." He motioned to Cameron, who had taken to some of the thing on his shelves with a puzzled expression. "Got something to do with her?"

"Uhhh…" John didn't know what to say. "Why do you think that?"

"She's different." Horace said. "Don't got to spend much time with someone to know about 'em John. You may think I'm just an old fool, but I been out in the world. Fought on three continents. I seen things in people make you sweat just like desert heat, the look someone gives a man before he shoots him, the way a man's eyes glaze over while he bleeds out. I live a simple life, don't mean I'm a simple man. Just mean I wanted to get away."

John could recognize the tone of the voice. The man sounded like a certain bearded uncle he'd had in another lifetime, someone who'd died for a cause. John thought on the truth, the coarsest version of it. "Yeah, it's her. It's me too, but I'm here for her."

Horace smiled, showing his yellow teeth. "I can see that." He sipped on a jar of cactus wine, his eyes fixed on John while a smile grew across his face. "You trade?"

"I'm sorry?" John said.

"You trade? I got what you need, but ain't nothing free out here." Horace leaned forward. "What do you got?"

John was at a loss, but he gathered himself quickly. "Well, I can fix things. I saw an old radio out there, does that work?"

Horace shook his head. "Been years."

"I might be able to get it going."

"What else?"

John thought about it for a moment, then reached into his belt. He took out the 1911 and looked it over, and when he looked back at Horace he saw that he had the piece he wanted. "This?"

"That would be worth just about anything I gave you. Do you mind?"

John gave it up, and Horace looked over the black metal gun with its wooden grips. "You like it?"

"I had one just like this once, army issue. I'll tell you what." He handed the gun back. "That there, that will get you what you need. You fix the radio and I'll consider anything else you might like."

"I guess I had better get to work then." John said with a smile.

John had to scavenge the parts for the radio from other broken things. It was slow work, but as his hands moved and as he remembered what a radio amplifier looked like on a circuit diagram he found himself at peace. It felt strange to be so relaxed, and he would look up from his workbench to see Horace outside with Cameron, talking and laughing while she would look at him both with understanding and confusion.

The repair wasn't a work of art, but John thought on his materials and skill and he believed it to be sound. It would last as long as it didn't get wet, as long as it wasn't treated to rough, which seemed unlikely out here. He had replaced some of the corroded wiring with the same wire he and Cameron carried into the desert, and a diode had come from a burned out Lionel train transformer. John crafted a resistor out of a spool of wire, thinking that might be the biggest hack he had ever made, but when he fed the radio juice from a hand-cranking alternator he heard something.

The tuner was in poor shape, and there was no fixing it. John tried to clean off the sliding capacitor but all he did was flake the insulation off which made things worse. Eventually, after the jury-rigged battery was charged with enough juice to keep it going for a while, a faint voice came from the speaker.

"…good day!" Said someone on the A.M. band.

Like any other fix, this one made him feel good. John looked over the mess that he had made, the clipped wire and the cannibalized hulks, thinking that Horace didn't have much of a use for toy trains, but that it had been a shame all the same. Lots of these things were antiques where he came from.

The signal was spotty out here but with a little improvisation he wired an antenna into the iron rods that held the water bucket and ran the cable back to the cabin. Things sounded better than that, so good that he poured himself a glass of water, and, after a moment, a jar of the liquid fire that Horace seemed to be so fond of. He drank the water in great gulps, and the whiskey in sips and in no time at all John Connor had slipped from fifth gear into neutral. He sat in the shade of a rocky overhang in the spring of 1961, watching his best and only friend talk to their acquaintance with all the ease of a girl at the same time shy and curious. He sat in the shade and she worked in the sun and every so often their eyes would meet, and John would drink a sip of whiskey and forget to chase it with water.

Despite his best intentions, they managed to stay the entire day near the cabin. John saw no way that they would leave any time soon, so he allowed his guard to fall and found that the simple life had its pleasures. Horace proved to be as good as his word, and sometime near the late afternoon Cameron brought John something with a grin forming at one corner of her lips.

"Do you want to see something?" She said, a large roll of paper in one hand.

"What do you have there?" He asked.

Cameron beckoned him over to a flat place where she could unroll the paper. The lines were freshly drawn in grease ink, but they had to have been made by a steady hand. John recognized Highway fifty from his own map, the one he'd left back in the truck. The road made a little elbow bend near the corner and disappeared off the map to the south. John saw Scorpion creek and the others, and a tiny triangle marked home base.

"Is this us?" He asked.

"Yes. Horace helped me draw this from a collection of other maps. We walked eleven miles five hundred and thirty feet through the desert." She looked up at him. "That was nominal distance. Actual distance traveled is slightly higher due to irregularities in the terrain."

John smiled. "Good to know. You counted?"

"Yes." She said. "It seemed natural."

"So, from here…" John drew his hand over the features of the map until he came to one that caught his eye. "What's this?"

"This is a spur of an old Southwestern and Pacific railroad line. This is the southern terminus." Cameron looked up at him, and John thought at that moment they might actually be sharing thoughts. "It's not far off the main line."

"So we jump a train." John said.

"It seemed better than getting back on the highway. Crossing the Mojave north would be too great a risk. The nearest settlement north is thirty nine miles. Additionally, this allows us to avoid the authorities."

John looked at her for a minute without saying anything.

"Is something wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing at all. I like this plan. So, we set out tonight, make about three miles an hour, be there by midday tomorrow?"

"Horace would like us to stay tonight." She said. "He's lonely."

"Well I would be too." John said.

"He said you fixed the radio. He'll like that." Cameron said. "I think he's infatuated with me."

John coughed a little of the cactus wine back into his mouth and it burned. "Wha…what? Did he tell you that?"

"No, but his eyes dilate when he looks at me, and in the six hours thirty nine minutes we've been here, he's spent five hours and fifty three minutes either speaking to me or looking in my direction." She paused, almost for dramatic effect. "He believes I haven't noticed, but he's not very cautious, particularly when he's been drinking." She looked at the glass in John's hand, and he quickly poured the rest on the ground. She leaned in to John, lowering her voice. "He's been drinking a lot."

"You don't say?" John replied.

The rest of the day went slowly as John would charge the radio battery with the hand crank every so often and hear the news or a song, sometimes an advertisement for cigarettes or cars. John wanted to move. The longer they stayed the more likely it would be that they would be found. His instincts, which had always been good, told him that soon they would stumble back into the line of fire. He only hoped their luck could help them cross through it.

For his part Horace was gracious, though John watched him closely. Cameron had been right. Horace probably hadn't seen a woman in months, perhaps hadn't talked to one so much in years. John understood Cameron's charms probably better than she did, but he tried to put them out of his mind. Then he would see her grin, even just hear her voice and they were back. This was a losing battle.

They ate under the stars, a view that took no getting used to. John sat close to Cameron, chewing on a bit of a rattlesnake that Horace had scared up earlier. John never balked at strange food, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd tasted roast diamondback. He would have to tell his mother about this when he saw her next.

He must have stared out into space for a while, thinking how it might well be years before he saw her again. Without warning John felt tears slide down his cheeks. He was struck by a sudden memory of her staring after him.

'I'll stop it John.'

But there had been no stopping it. John brought himself back to the present to find Cameron looking at him, her lips parted just slightly. He wondered if she might have any idea what he was feeling, and as if to answer she put her hand over his.

"I was just thinking about mom." He said.

"You miss her."

"Yeah." He whispered. Horace was across from them, but unless John was mistaken the old man seemed to have fallen asleep. His chin was dipped down to his chest which rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

They sat like that for a while, listening as a coyote call rang out across the desert. John felt the warmth on his hand, and he tried to conjure the words to tell her what he wanted to say. At the last minute he held his tongue, but Cameron must have noticed.

"What is it John?" She asked.

He shook his head, but when he felt her hand rise he stopped her. "Can we just sit like this for a little bit?" He asked her, surprised to hear the need in his voice. Cameron didn't deny him and for a while they just sat there as the fire dwindled into red coals. Tonight, for at least this one night, they would be free.

Tomorrow, they would run.

Courier had gotten into a car with Sheriff Bill Lagrange a little before dawn. They drove east, following the road John and Cameron had taken earlier. After a few miles, they passed the dusty wrecks of the two police cruisers.

"They got a big head start on us. You think they made it to Ely yet?" The sheriff asked.

Courier had inherited the driving duties. Stillwater was in the car behind them with Roland, following at some distance. He shrugged, trying not to let his mixed feelings about this situation come to the surface. "Honestly sheriff, with these two it's hard to tell."

"Seems to be the pattern with these two. They killed anyone yet?"

Courier shifted in his seat. "Not yet. Honestly I don't think it'll come to that."

Bill laughed at him. "Oh yeah? These the kind of felons that you want to invite around town with you?"

"That wasn't what I meant." Courier said. "What I mean to say is that they've raised some hell, but they had a chance to do me and didn't."

"Awfully nice of them." Bill checked his gun on his hip for the third time in ten minutes. "All the same, if they give us any problems don't think I won't put 'em down."

Courier had no doubt that he'd do it, but didn't say anything for a while after that. The desert grew into a sandy brown blur, slipping by miles at a time until they came to rougher country, sandstone etched with dry riverbeds. Courier looked in his rearview, but didn't see the other car.

"Where the hell is Stillwater?" He asked.

The sheriff snapped his eyes open. "Wha…you mean he's not back there? He was the last time I looked."

Courier was upset with himself for not noticing sooner, but his mind had wandered. The sheriff's too, apparently. "When was the last time you looked?"

The sheriff looked around. "Well what time is it?" He asked, matter-of-factly.

Courier was about to retort when something chrome caught his eye. He slammed on the brakes, sending the sheriff flying into the dashboard. The man swore loudly. "Can you give a guy some fucking warning?"

The car skidded onto the dirt shoulder and to a halt near the edge of a deep ravine. Courier got out, knowing what he was going to see before he even got there. At the bottom was the truck, smashed by the fall and upside down. He couldn't see from up here, but he doubted that they would find any bodies down there.

"Sheriff, I need you to get on the radio and find Stillwater, or Roland or someone…tell them we've found the truck."

By this time, the sheriff had joined him on the edge of the ravine. He looked over the edge and spit. "Looks like they did our job for us."

"Oh, I doubt that."

"You think they dumped it? Who dumps a vehicle in the middle of the desert?"

Courier didn't answer, concentrating on sliding down the side of the ravine without snapping either of his legs. The sides were rocky, and his shoes weren't made for it but he reached the bottom and stumbled over to the truck. He almost laughed out loud when he saw the empty cab.

"John, John John…what did you do?" He said to himself.

"Courier!" The sheriff called from up above. "Get up here, we got to go!" There was a touch of panic in his voice.

"Go where?" He said, scrambling to get back to the top of the embankment.

"They shot him!" Bill said, his jowls trembling. His face had gone red. When Courier reached the top of the ravine he rushed to take the radio microphone, which had fallen from the sheriff's grip.

"What are you talking about?"

"They shot old Horace Ingals!" The sheriff sobbed.

"What? Who did? How do you know?"

He voice that came over the radio made the blood in Courier's veins run ice cold.

"I'm afraid they got away from me Agent Courier, but I know where they're going." Stillwater said. "But they shot an old hermit that lived out here to cover their escape and…I'm afraid they've killed Mr. Roland as well."


	9. Chapter 9

**Authors note at the end.**

Stillwater set the radio microphone down on the dash, left his gun on the seat and sat back to think. Courier had not responded over the radio and that bothered him. The F.B.I. agent did not trust him; he was not as quick to authority as Stillwater had guessed. This was a complication, but not the first.

He got out of the car on the passenger side. The wind had picked up in the late morning and it banged the door to the cabin against the outside wall. There was no sound but the slapping of wood on wood and his feet crunching the gravel beneath him. Entering the cabin, Stillwater let his eyes wander.

Horace was slumped over in the chair. The blood, now thickened had begun to dry on his face and arms. He'd cried, and his cheeks were still wet with tears, but not until the very end had the old man broken. He was stronger than he had any right to be. Still, in the end he'd given up the piece Stillwater needed.

Breaking the neck of the cactus wine jug doused the cabin. The smell of grain alcohol rose in the air. He threw the jug aside with a crash, lit a match and set a fire that would reduce the structure to ash. The flames crawled over Horace, rushing up to his face. He watched until he could no longer stand the smell.

Stillwater pulled Roland's corpse away from the driver's door where he'd fallen. The single shot caught him in the back of the head as he ran to the car, spraying blood and tissue over the seat. The nine millimeter was still warm when he picked it up.

Roland, as it turned out, had been easy. It was the old man that had unsettled the tall, thin man the most. The way he died, the expression on his face was not one of disgust or revulsion.

It had been peaceful, utterly gone of fear. It gave Stillwater disquiet.

There was no shaking the feeling that somehow, somewhere along the line fate had turned its back on him. He had been sure John and Cameron would have been with the old man. When it turned out they had gone, he had to improvise. He did Roland first and afterward the hermit, but only after he'd told what he knew.

They were halfway to the rail yard by now, but he had them. They would have nowhere to go when they got there. There would be no train. There would be no way out this time, and he could go home.

Setting the gun down, he got out. In preparation for the capture he went to the trunk. It was empty but for a spare tire and tire iron which he discarded leaving only a panel with an iron handle. He pulled it open to reveal a collection of wires and gauges, a bank of batteries and transformers equipped with analog gauges all at rest.

It was all cobbled together from sixties era parts and looked like a very ambitious rats nest, but he had tested it and found the results to be acceptable. The problem was the charge time – it took a while for the voltage to build up enough to be effective. He'd have one shot. In his pocket he had a well-honed knife.

_120 seconds._

He drove east into a clear blue sky, but behind him dark clouds built above the desert floor. Stillwater thought he could smell the rain in the air, an electric mist that hovered over the barren earth. There was a storm coming, waiting for the first drop of rain to fall.

Not long afterward he pulled to the side of the road just outside of Ely, Nevada. The clump of police cruisers stuck out along the road, as did the dozen or so men that milled around nervously. Stillwater found Agent Courier there with the two sheriffs, Bill from Fortune city and another rugged looking man he thought must be Harper.

Getting out of the car, each man looked at him differently. Bill could hardly have seen through his puffy eyes, and sheriff Harper only nodded as he approached. Both of these men seemed to be having trouble settling Roland's death.

Courier was another matter. His eyes didn't leave Stillwater's face for a second as he approached. He seemed to be boring into the man, trying to detect something. His face was not distraught or confused. No, Stillwater saw something there much worse. Resolution.

"Agent, Sheriff Lagrange, I assume Sheriff Harper?" Stillwater greeted them all, holding out his hand. Harper took it in a crushing grip. "I'm sorry Sheriff, Roland and I got there just as they were making their escape. They'd killed the old man, taken water and were setting out across the desert."

"Any idea where they're going?" Harper asked.

"Before he died, Horace relayed to me that they intended on jumping the train at a nearby rail yard. You wouldn't happen to know where that is?"

Lagrange sniffed loudly. "Son of a bitch, what time is it?"

"'Bout one o'clock. They're gonna hop the eastbound coal train, goes through once a week from Wyoming. It'll be headed back north, empty."

"Don't go through till five or so, we got time." Lagrange said. "I'll be damned if they get on that train. Harper, you on with us?"

"Oh yeah, gotta do something. Lawman down, really only one way to bring them in now." Harper said.

Courier hadn't really been listening to the conversation. He and Stillwater were staring at one another across a widening gulf, and now it would be hard to pick the sterner gaze. "What way is that Sheriff?"

Harper hooked his finger in his gun belt. "Bags and tags is about the only way to get this done. That about right Bill?"

"God damned right."

Courier paused before nodded at them. "Fine. Get your men up, get them all ready. Stillwater and I are going ahead."

"You sure that's wise?" Harper said. "These two seem desperate."

"No, Courier is right." Stillwater said. "These two were Federal fugitives first; we need to bring them in if we can." He said.

"And if we can't?" Harper asked.

"Well, then this is the end of the line for both of them." Stillwater replied.

The agents turned and made for the car at the same time, leaving the two lawmen to their devices. Courier automatically went to the passenger seat, but Stillwater held up his hand.

"Why don't you take the wheel?" He asked, holding out the keys.

Courier took them after a moment's hesitation. He wanted to ride, to have his hands free but there was something to be said for driving. Entering the vehicle he noted a few drops of blood on the roof, flung there as if from a painters brush. There were a few dried spots of red on the door frame as well. Before he took the wheel his hand brushed over his sidearm, checking the safety.

It was off, and that was good.

For a while the two men were silent. A few miles before the turn to the southern spur, Courier spoke up.

"Who told you about the old man?"

There was a brief, almost measured pause as Stillwater answered. "Roland mentioned him to me. It seemed to follow that while you went ahead, he and I could investigate."

"And you didn't think to radio to me where you were going? At least to the sheriff? You got his man killed." _One way or another._

Stillwater didn't answer, but Courier pressed on. "How did it happen?" Courier kept his eyes forward, glued to the road but let his hands slide down the wheel lazily, allowing his left hand to hover over his thigh.

"Roland charged in. He saw them and ran for John, they cut him down right there."

Courier shook his head. "God damn that's a shame. He seemed like a good kid." Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Stillwater relax just slightly. "You sure he wasn't running towards the car when you shot him?"

There was a second where neither of them moved. Courier let the air drain from his lungs, and as he drew in his next breath he saw Stillwater reach down to his side. Courier drove the wheel hard over, slamming the brakes as he did. Stillwater bounced off the dash and his gun flew into the back seat.

By then Courier had his own gun out. "You son of a bitch!" He tried to aim, but the first shot only shattered the back window.

Stillwater reacted, but instead of slapping the gun out of his hand he reached under the dash. There was a pause where his eyes lit up with malice before Courier felt his hands burn with electricity. He wanted to scream, but no sound left his mouth. He couldn't let go of the steering wheel no matter how hard he tried.

The jolt lasted only a second, but it had been enough to stun him. Stillwater reached across and opened the door, pushing Courier out onto the road. The car never stopped, and he slid across and jammed the accelerator back down to the floor. The rail yard was near, he knew, and now nothing stood between himself and revenge.

They walked for miles north and west, following the direction of an old trail that seemed to blend in and out of the desert. It was easy going as the heat of the previous day never materialized. John felt a shiver run through him and thought it might rain. He looked back over his shoulder to a dark sky behind them.

"We need to pick up the pace." He said.

Cameron nodded in agreement. They hadn't talked much since leaving the old man behind, coming together to consult her map at the top of every hill. At the top of one such hill, Cameron stopped and let her eyes scan the horizon.

"I can see it." She said.

John craned his neck and followed her line of sight. Sure enough, he could make out a few structures clumped together and what looked like a row of rail cars sitting idle on the tracks.

"I don't see a train." He said.

Cameron shrugged. "It will be along."

They approached the yard from the south, seeking cover as they could. The wind was picking up now. He was colder than he had been in days. The sun went behind a patch of clouds and suddenly he felt cold. Thunder reeled over the distance. The world smelled like smoke and rain.

They stopped along a line of rusted carriage cars and John scanned their surroundings. "I swear I saw something up here. Didn't you see it?"

Cameron shook her head. She heard the strain in John's voice, the fear in it and she shared it. "What do you think it was?"

"I think…I don't know. Maybe nothing." He urged her to follow him as he moved farther up the line. The yard sprawled out around them offering a thousand places to hide but nowhere to run.

John was sure he had seen something this time. It was only for a moment, but there had been a gust of wind and the sound of gravel, a footstep perhaps. John stopped to listen, swearing silently. He held his breath. If the damned wind would go down for just five seconds he could listen, hear the world around him.

"John." Cameron whispered.

He looked up and saw she was pointing straight ahead. There was a figure between two rail cars, standing straight up. John had only a moment to look before he ducked back into cover, pulling Cameron along behind him.

The figure was in shadow, but it seemed familiar. John had only to recall a few days prior to know who it was. "I think it's that F.B.I. agent." He said.

"From Carver?" Cameron asked.

"I think so. Cameron –"

"This is bad, isn't it?" She said.

Before John could answer he heard the agent call out, his carried on the wind. "John! I know you're here!" There was a pause as the wind picked up, but it was only brief.

Despite the wind, John could tell he was moving closer. He took stock of his surroundings, seeing an old outbuilding perhaps a hundred yards to the north. He nudged Cameron, pointing the way.

Cameron had been scanning downrange, off in the desert. "John, I don't think he's alone."

"People like him never are." John said. The agent called out again and John threw a glance over his shoulder, but he saw no one.

The outbuilding was corrugated steel flaked with rust. They rushed through the door and ducked below the window. It was hardly big enough for one man's office, a few feet on each side. John tried to close the door, but it was rusted on its hinges.

"John someone is coming." Cameron said.

He held his hand to his mouth, and at that moment the wind died down to a whisper. At first he heard only tiny raindrops on the tin roof, but after a second there was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere outside.

The moment before the gunshot seemed like an eternity. John looked to Cameron, who seemed to be thinking the same thing. She thumbed the hammer back on her revolver, but instead of a click there was a report like thunder.

There was either one shot or two – the metal made the sound reverberate everywhere at once. John stumbled out of the door unaware of where he was going. He felt a strong hand on his wrist and looked up to see Cameron. She had both hands on him now, the gun was gone.

"Cameron, did you shoot?" He said. His voice sounded strange to him.

She didn't answer, but when he looked at her he saw terror in her eyes. He didn't understand why until she pressed her hand to his flank and he felt his flesh burn. When she pulled her hand back it was covered with blood.

"John you're shot." She said. Her even tone, always so comforting was nowhere to be found. John fell to his knee and rose only to fall again. "John…oh no."

"Oh John, I'm sorry. I honestly meant to shoot you in the chest, but that seems like it will do."

Standing in front of them was a pale, thin man whose sick skin and gaunt face told a terrible story. He held a gun out at arm's length, and he sneered down as he considered them both.

"I wanted this to last a little longer, but you know I'm really not a cruel man so..." Stillwater snapped a quick smile and pulled the trigger. John heard three shots before the gun ran dry, and in his mind he felt each hit him.

But they had not. Stillwater couldn't miss from so close, and when John looked back up Cameron was standing with her back to him, her arms out.

"No!" Cameron commanded.

Stillwater took a step back, his face momentarily alarmed. When Cameron stood her ground though, the sneer returned.

"Have you remembered? I wondered just how much of you was left in your chrome brainpan."

"You can't hurt him!" She said.

"It seems like I already have, and that looks like quite a wound." Stillwater said. He took a measured step back from Cameron, his eyes searching hers for recognition, but he saw none. "He needs a hospital."

There was movement from somewhere and another voice rang out. "Put the gun down Stillwater."

Both John and Cameron's eyes flew to the right, where a familiar face rose up out of the sand. Lance Courier stood with his weapon drawn, his black tie flapping in the wind.

Stillwater seemed frozen for a moment before he dove to the ground. Forgetting the wound in his side, John tried to stop him. Cameron saw the silver barrel of the revolver come up as Stillwater rolled on the ground and pulled John to her, covering him with both arms. There was an explosion of gunfire, and instead of looking to see who had shot at whom she forced John into a run.

"I'm sorry John, I know it hurts." She said. "Just a little bit farther, it has to be here…" She scanned the rusted buildings, the carriage cars and scattered debris for a moment before she detected what she needed, not with her eyes but with her nose. She could smell the exhaust from a car, one nearby.

"I'll get you out of here. I can fix you, just hold on."

John was gripping his side, trying to feel if the bullet had grazed him or if it was still inside, rattling around in his belly. He decided that since he wasn't dead, that had to be a good sign, but there was an awful lot of blood.

"It's okay Cam, I'll be alright." He said, trying to sound reassuring. "Just a little gunshot wound."

"Shut up and walk." She said, tightening her grip on him.

John could feel the blood running down his back. It soaked his shirt and turned the blue denim jeans he was wearing black. The wound burned with every breath he took, but he could see the car. He urged Cameron on.

"Come on, just a little farther." He said.

She held him with one hand, her gun in the other. John was leaning on her heavily now, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She could see the pain he was in, but he was right. They needed to go just a little farther.

"I'll drive." She said.

"No argument here." He said.

"John! Cameron! Stop right there!" It was Courier.

John tried to look over his shoulder, but Cameron kept pushing him forward. "He's sixty meters behind us; we should be able to make it. Come on John." She pulled harder on his arm, but he stumbled to one knee. "John move!" She said, the urgency in her voice quite unintentional.

"John don't get in that car. I can help you but you'll have to stop!"

"Right…right I'll get right on that." John said under his breath. They were almost there. Twenty feet. Ten feet. John slammed into the side of the car with undue force, unable to halt his forward progress. Cameron shoved him roughly into the driver's seat and across the partition, sliding in right after him.

"Go Cameron, just drive."

Cameron didn't need to be told again. She closed the door, put one hand on the steering wheel and another on the ignition, completing the circuit.

John saw her body arch, smelled the burned flesh and torched wiring. Before he knew what had happened Cameron slumped forward in the seat. Her eyes were open, but when he reached for her she didn't respond.

"Cam! Cameron!" He said, but he knew it was no use. He looked to see Courier hobbling towards the car. At the last possible minute, a black shadow passed behind him from some distance.

"Stop!" He yelled, with all the command he thought he could muster.

Courier stopped dead in his tracks, his arms out. For a moment he looked as if he didn't know what to make of the situation, but gathering himself he raised his pistol. "John! Stop!"

"Behind you!"

Shots rang out from somewhere. John ducked down, covering his face with his hands. He heard the bullets hit the car one right after the other as glass rained down on him. Cameron was still in her seat, unmoving. How long had it been?

When he looked up, Courier was face down on the ground. John couldn't see if he'd been shot, but he saw Stillwater running towards him, his arms pumping. He charged towards the car and burst through the driver door, slamming the butt of his gun into Johns head.

One moment he'd been shielding his face, the next minute John had felt the impact. Was it a shot? He hadn't heard anything, but the world spun around him. His hands were empty; he could smell rain and taste blood. He tried to raise his head. It took him a moment to realize he wasn't in the car anymore. Instead he lay sprawled on the ground, half in and half out of the car. Someone had hit him. With a rising sense of panic, he tried to get up, finally finding his feet.

He used the car to hold himself up, but every step took something from him. With the world still spinning he came to the other side of the car and his heart sank.

Cameron was on the ground with someone kneeling over her. She was still out of it, and as soon as John saw her face he knew why. Her scalp had been cut roughly away and now hung from her face. Whoever it was had access to her chip port.

"What the hell are you doing?" John said, every word an effort.

"Stay back John or I'll snap this thing in half." He saw the man hold out a tiny black chip.

"No! Alright, I'm staying back." John said, raising his arms as high as they would go.

There was the unmistakable sound of a hammer being rocked back and John froze. For a moment he thought Stillwater would turn to shoot him.

John saw Stillwater freeze. Neither of the men had seen Courier, but he was standing unsteadily with his gun sighted in the other agent. John felt anger rise in his chest. This wouldn't happen again. Not again, not ever. As he prepared himself, Stillwater chose his moment to act. His arm moved so quickly that John was startled at the sound of a pistol. To his side, Courier rolled to one side.

Stillwater came up to standing position. Courier looked up to see John lunge forward. He put all his strength into his legs, pushing himself forward like a cannon shot. Stillwater's pistol went off, the shot going wide as the gun flew from his hand.

"No!" John said through gritted teeth. He saw something else fly out of the man's hand and land a few feet away.

John lashed out with his fist, finding flesh with one, two and then three blows. He felt blood on his knuckles, aware of how slick it felt. Stillwater's hands flew up to his face as he tried to push John off but there was a fire in his blood, his strength was unreal. John hit him again and felt the satisfying sensation of breaking bone. He brought his arm back for one final blow before Stillwater put both hands on his flank.

John screamed, falling sideways as the pain erupted through his side. Stillwater pressed his fingers against the entry wound even as the blood poured down his face. As soon as John had hit the ground he scrambled for his pistol.

"Don't touch that fucking gun!" Courier said.

Stillwater was on one knee and reaching when Courier took his shot. It was true and brutal, and John saw his leg buckle right below the knee, and he heard the man scream. Stillwater writhed in the mud clutching his shattered knee as John staggered to his feet. He wanted to see this man.

He stood over Stillwater, his lips twisted, his eyes bearing down on the broken man below him. He could feel warm blood on his face, the pain of the gunshot. His whole body hurt, but his rage served as a balm to it.

"Why?" John demanded.

Stillwater tried to rise, but found Johns foot over his chest. "Because it hurts you." He said.

"Why Cameron?" He said, louder this time, loud enough to carry over the wind and rain.

Stillwater only laughed. "You'd better kill me John." He said.

John heard only the slick, oily sound of Stillwater talking to him. He found himself wanting to do it. He wanted to hurt this man so badly that it took a physical effort to resist.

"I'm not a killer." John said.

"That's a lie." Stillwater said, and for the first time he sounded angry. "You're just as bad as one of them John, deep down you're more metal than her. And if you don't kill me I'll just keep coming."

"No, you're done. I beat you." The words came out in gasping breaths. "Now tell me." He leaned forward and pulled Stillwater's arm from his cuff. John narrowed his eyes over the barcode tattoo. "Who are you?"

Stillwater gave a resigned sigh. "John, you can go right to hell." He said.

John gave him one last shove to the ground. He took Cameron's chip and left his crippled opponent bleeding, unable to do so much as shield himself from the rain. Courier was with Cameron, he with her head on his lap and she as if she may have been sleeping. The man looked as bad as John felt.

"You alright?" John said, kneeling down. The storm seemed to be waning as the wind was less fierce but no less cold, the rain lighter but now coming from every direction.

"John what the hell is going on?" Courier said.

John held up the chip, shielding it from the rain. "This is Cameron. This is all she'll ever be, all she's ever been. Everything she knows or has ever thought is right here in my hand." John said.

"How is that even possible?" Courier said. "Are you saying she's not human?"

John couldn't wait any longer. He took her head, cradling it in his arms and opened the port on her scalp. He slipped it in and felt the mechanism lock into place. When he closed the port and the wound John took her hand and waited and hoped.

"No, she's not human."

"What then?"

John didn't answer. For what felt like a long time he sat, not feeling the cold of the rain, not hearing the wind howl. He hated waiting like this.

"She's one of a kind." John said. "She's my best friend."

John could feel the agent studying his face. What would happen now would happen and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Surrounded, they had nowhere to run, no friends to turn to. The minute John felt Cameron's hand move in his all of that was forgotten. She opened her eyes and looked up.

"John." She said. "I dreamed again."

"You'll have to tell me about it."

Courier could hardly believe what he was seeing. He sat back on the gravel, taking it all in. Cameron rose up to John and he saw the long look they shared. Looking between them he thought he could sense the answer to at least one of his questions. The agent struggled to his feet, feeling a little tipsy when he got there.

"John, look I don't understand all of this but I want to help both of you if I can."

Cameron helped John to his feet. "There's only one way to help us. You know what she is, and what will happen if we're taken by the police. It'll be the end of her, and of me." John said. "There's only one thing you can do."

"Let you go." Courier said. "That's all I can do?"

"You've caught a killer, seems like a fair trade." John said.

Looking down at Stillwater, who was still laying with his shattered leg in the easing rain, Courier nodded. "Go then. I'll stall as long as I can, but don't go towards the road. Forget the train, I don't want to know where you're going, but go."

"I know where we'll go. I'll take care of John." Cameron said. They both looked at her, and she flashed a smile. "I had a dream. Trust me."

John and Cameron fled west and south, down back the way they came. The storm had passed them over now and the sky revealed a brilliant, warming desert sunset. Before they disappeared from view, Courier called out one last time.

"John, let me know you're safe. Just…get a message to me. I'm sure you can think of something."

John didn't answer, but Courier saw his hand fly up once over his head in response. Then Cameron led him down a grade, behind a rocky outcropping and they were gone. The desert swallowed them up and so carefully kept were its secrets that when searched the next day and the next, it yielded only one path leading towards the rail yard. There was no trail leading away.

**Once again, this was a hard chapter to get through. Usually I like writing action, but for whatever reason this was hard. *****Please* ****let me know if you notice any mistakes, as I've rushed to get this thing done and posted and there was some serious cut and paste going on. On a practical note, this chapter marks the end of Part I. There won't be an official break or a new story post or anything, but look for a change of scenery (Goodbye desert! God I was getting sick of writing about you.) and the introduction of a handful of OC's, as well as one canon character who was only mentioned in the series…but who we should all be familiar with. Also, Jameron. Like really. But classy, cause that's how I roll.**

**Also, I wanted to give some thanks to people like Kaotic2, yetikilla, xxdeathstarxx, James, psg1john, Joker5974, vision, thelexy, rnbm and the host of others who have reviewed. It really helps to have good feedback.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Authors note: I am a liar. I am a fat flabby fibber. I didn't actually take a break. When the story is in your head, sometimes it just has to get out. Enjoy these two chapters, and thanks for all the reviews.**

John stirred from sleep, wrapping his arms around his chest to ward off the cold. He was laying on something downy and warm, but as he woke he became aware of the chill that had settled over him. His eyes opened on a small, dark room. He was alone, covered with a blanket.

"Cameron?" He said. His mouth was so dry that he barely made a sound. There was no answer.

Moonlight streamed in and pooled below the only window. He guessed he was in a hotel room. He tried to recall how he'd arrived in bed. The only image that came to mind was Cameron, with his blood on her hands, the sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears. Her fear infected him, and for a minute he thought he might be dying.

But no, he was only alone.

He heard a car pull up outside. The headlights flashed in the direction of the window and went out, and John heard footsteps coming to the door. John was aware of his sapped strength but tried to get up regardless. The door opened and he shifted his weight, losing the edge of the bed and rolling onto the floor.

She gave him a cross look and put her things down. "I knew you wouldn't stay in bed."

"Can I give you a hand Cam?" He asked.

She didn't say a word as she lifted him up and guided him back to the bed. Her hand wandered to his side and John saw that she had dressed his wound. There was a little blood on the sterile pad, but other than that it looked fresh.

"I need to get the bullet out. It's traveled under your right fifth rib, so it will be painful. Lay back down." The warmth of her hand took him by surprise. John was suddenly very aware that he was shirtless.

"What day is it?" He said.

"It's Tuesday. You've been asleep for twenty one hours."

"Good to know." He said. Truthfully he would have been better off not getting up. Every breath he took seemed to shoot pain across his chest. "It really hurts." He said.

"One of your ribs is broken." She said.

"Also good to know." He grunted.

"You should stop talking."

She left the room. John could hear her rooting around in the paper bags. He felt extraordinarily tired, but just as his eyes fluttered closed he saw Cameron hovering over him again.

"Roll over on your side." She said.

He obeyed, rolling so that he was facing her. The movement caused his eyes to snap open. He made out the sensation of the rib shifting as he moved and let out a small gasp of pain.

"God, remind me not to get shot again." He said.

"Yes, you should be more careful in the future." If John didn't know better, he would have said a dark look crossed her features.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

Cameron had been laying things out on the bed. She stopped and folded her hands in her lap. "You're injured."

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shake his stupor. "I got shot."

"This isn't funny."

"No it's not." He said.

"Your comments since my return tell me you find something amusing. I assume you're just tired, because people don't typically make light of these situations." There was no mistaking the inflection of her voice.

"Okay, I'll stop talking."

"Good. This will be unpleasant."

John mouthed the word 'wow' as he settled in, trying to prepare himself for the worst.

"Four." Cameron snapped.

"Sorry." He said.

She laid out her instruments on the table next to the bed. Among them was a pair of needle nose pliers, a bag of cotton balls and a small bottle of isopropyl alcohol. She had scrubbed the ashtray from beside the bed and set it out with her other things. The last thing she pulled out was a roll of thread and a large gauge needle. She poured a small portion of alcohol in the ashtray and dropped the needle and thread in, followed by the pliers.

John tensed as he felt her hands wander over his flank. He cried out as Cameron pulled the dressing off of his wound.

"Sorry." Cameron said.

"Was that…payback?" He asked.

Cameron didn't say anything, but he heard her rummage around in her bags. She pulled out something short and thrust it in his face.

"What's this?" He asked. It was hard for him to see in the dark.

"Rope. Something for the pain." Cameron leaned down to him. "I'm sorry. I couldn't get any anesthetics."

John couldn't suppress a shudder. He took the rope between his teeth and gave it an experimental bite. "Cah you thee ind da dak?" He asked through the rope.

"I see everything." Cameron said. "Prepare yourself."

John felt her lean over him and winced as she placed her weight on his side. He closed his eyes tightly as she tapped the knife on the edge of the ashtray. She moved over him, hesitated and then cut.

The pain of the incision was not the same as the broken rib. It was a cold, metallic sensation that reached all the way down his arm. He didn't move, he didn't breathe as she worked. She made only one incision, but her hand moved slowly, carefully. He only exhaled when he heard the knife splash down in the disinfectant.

Cameron wasted no time. She reached for the pliers, but stopped when she felt Johns hand close on her wrist.

"I know this hurts." She said. "I'll be quick." She said.

John bit down hard and nodded. Just a little more.

She guided the pliers down through the wound. It didn't hurt right away, not until she made contact with the bone. Then John understood what the rope had been for. He let out an involuntary moan of pain, which was joined by a full body shudder as he felt her lift the rib with one finger. He could literally feel the fracture. Resisting the urge to pass out, his hand went out and took hold of the first thing he could find.

"I've got it." She said.

He couldn't see it, but John heard the sound of something dropping into the alcohol. He could taste the copper in his mouth – his lower lip was bleeding where he'd bitten it. It took him a moment to realize his hand was gripping the edge of her bloody summer dress. He let go as suddenly as he'd clamped on.

"I'm sorry." They both said.

The rope fell from his mouth and John squeezed a tear from each eye. He looked up to her with what he hoped was a gritty smile. It felt more like a grimace.

"That's the worst." Cameron told him. "You're lucky he was using such a small caliber." She said.

The pain faded rapidly into a dull burn. "I guess if you need to get shot, small is the way to go." John said.

"If he was trying to kill you, he should have used something bigger. A .357 for example." Cameron told him.

John laughed a little, wincing in the process. "Yep, bigger is better." He took his hand from her knee with some reluctance.

"It's a .25 caliber. Unusual size."

"He seemed like an unusual man." John said.

"He is, you mean. He's still alive." Cameron poured a few drops of alcohol on his wound.

"Ahhh! God that burns. And it's cold." John said.

"Interesting contradiction." Cameron said. "This will hurt, but not as much." She leaned over him with her needle and thread. For a moment John wanted to stop her, but he knew what needed to be done. No sense in putting it off.

"Yeah, I've had stitches before." John said.

"From me?" She asked.

He was about to answer when he felt her push the needle through his skin. He swore a little with each stitch, counting three, four and finally five. Cameron tied the string off and dabbed around the wound to clean up. When the last of the blood was gone and she dried him off, she dressed the wound again, and this at least was painless.

"Ow!"

Mostly.

Johns mind swam from the pain. The room seemed to go in and out of focus but with some effort he brought his eyes back to Cameron. "Cameron I want to talk to you about Stillwater. About everything." He said.

She finished putting her things away. Everything she'd used was now neatly arranged at the bottom of the paper bag. John breathed a little and winced, wrapping his arm around his right side.

"It will take time for your rib to heal." She told him.

"I'll live. Listen, Cam, we need to talk." He said. "You said you had another dream? Like when we were in the desert? You never really told me what happened when you…blacked out."

"I didn't black out. I rebooted." She said.

"Good, that's good. You're right."

"I know what's going on inside my head John." For the first time ever, John thought she sounded angry, perhaps even a little hurt. "A little bit of it, at least."

Of that much, he was sure. "Cameron, what's bothering you?"

He'd seen that look once before. She furrowed her brow and for a moment John saw a girls face, and he saw all of the fear that he himself was feeling, he saw the doubts raised by her nature and her loss of identity.

"Look at me." He said.

Cameron didn't. John made out the tension growing across her face, the flush of red down her neck. He had never seen anything like it in her. Or had he? He wracked his brain for a time when she had been so human.

"Who is John Henry?" She asked.

The name caught John off guard. It had been so long since he'd even thought of John Henry that it took a moment to recall the face. Cromartie. George Laszlo. The gears in his brain turned over as John worked up to the answer. _The truth_, he said to himself. That was all he'd ever wanted from Cameron, and he felt he should pay in kind.

"It's complicated." John started. "John Henry is like you. I mean, he's a machine." John paused for a moment to measure her reaction. If she did, she did so within herself. "He's a computer program, but he's unique. Not like any other program." There was so much more, but that was the gist of it. Armageddon was hardly bedroom talk, or down-two-units-of-blood-talk for that matter.

Finally, she looked at him. "He's in my head." She said.

"That makes sense." John said, and then he turned to her. "Wait. Was he in your dream?"

Cameron took a moment and then nodded. "You said he was a computer program, a machine?"

This time it was John turn to nod slowly. "An advanced artificial intelligence."

"Then what does that make me if he's in my head?" Cameron looked right at him as she spoke.

John chose his words carefully. "It makes you…similar."

"John Henry said you knew what I am. Under all this, I'm metal. I don't have a heart. I'm invincible."

"That isn't true." John said. '_On both counts_.' He almost said.

"Compared to you I am."

"It's because you're…" He thought back and knew what he wanted to say. "You're a cybernetic organism. Living tissue over a metal endoskeleton. It makes you tough. You're stronger and faster than me, you're basically bulletproof. But you're not invulnerable." John said. "But I think you knew all of that already."

She nodded. "I wanted to know if you really knew what you were getting yourself into."

John couldn't suppress a laugh, despite the pain. He felt his stitches strain along his wound. "What I'm getting into. I already have a pretty good idea about that." He said.

"I don't know about that." She said. "I don't think you know it all."

This time John had a cross look of his own. "Try me."

Cameron didn't respond right away. She seemed to be taking her time, thinking over what she might say. Whatever she wanted to say, she seemed to come up short and finally turned away.

"What are you afraid of?" John rolled over onto his back. He moved to one side of the bed and indicated to the other side. "Here, lay down."

"I don't sleep."

"Yeah I know Cam. Just come sit at least. I don't like having people hawing over me, it creeps me out. Come and share these bad things." John fixed her with his gaze. "Just get over here."

"You're not my boss." She said.

"You know you want to."

Apparently he was right. John watched, drawn to her eyes, but every time they met she would look away. No matter what he did she wouldn't meet his gaze, and after a moment he relented, rolling onto his back.

He drew in a long breath, filling his chest and belly, letting it all out at once. "Man, I've lost weight. Look at this." He pressed his hands to his stomach and revealed his ribs.

This produced the reaction he was looking for, as Cameron turned her head to his. He locked eyes with her, but again she retreated.

"You haven't been eating." She said.

"Been on the run. In fact I've been running forever." He said.

John waited for her to react, and when he felt that he had waited long enough he opened his mouth to continue. The silence, however, was cut short.

"You've been running from me." Cameron said, very quietly. It was almost a whisper.

John flinched. This time, when he looked over he saw that she was the one waiting for his gaze, and he met her only briefly.

"Sometimes." He said. "You remembered that part?"

She didn't nod, but she didn't deny it either. "I read about it in a book."

That wasn't what he had been expecting. "Not a book here, right?" He gestured to the room.

Cameron put one finger to her temple. "Here."

"Is that what you dream about? John Henry and the public Library?" John said.

Cameron raised an eyebrow. "Do you always joke this much?"

John cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I'll be nice."

She looked skeptical, but continued. "The books are in my dreams. I can see them, touch them. I can read them. They all have the names of people, some places. There's one with your name, one with your mothers. There are others…there seem to be more every time I go back."

"I'm guessing you haven't read them all?"

She shook her head. "I don't have time when I'm there. Out here, I can read thousands of words a minute, but in my dreams I'm slow." She put her hand to her neck, looking for something. "And I have a heart. I can feel it beating. I can feel pain and…other things."

John didn't know if it was his curiosity of the blood loss, but he took her hand from her neck and held it in his own. "More than just sensation, you mean."

"Yes. I feel…" She trailed off. "A lot of things."

John waited a moment before letting go of her hand. "I guess you don't want to share them."

"No."

"That's fair. But do you think you'll tell me eventually?"

She gave him a vague nod. John looked to change the subject, to keep her talking. He wanted to talk to her, he wanted to know what was going on inside her head. Cameron seemed reluctant to share anything and he wondered if she had stumbled across something in her past that was troubling her, something that had frightened her. Taken out of context certain parts of her might seem terrifying. Some things about her might seem that way regardless of context.

"So, where are we anyway?" He said.

"We're at the Emerald Lodge outside of Evergreen. We're about twenty miles west of Denver, Colorado."

"You drove us here?"

"I stole a police car." Cameron said, smiling a little. "It seemed convenient. Once I knew you weren't going to bleed to death, I decided that I needed to put as much space between the agents and ourselves."

"On the run again." John sighed.

"Is that normal?"

John nodded, leaning back on the bed. "Normal, yeah. I'm done with it, honestly. Once we're out of this mess, once we get back." He glanced over to her. "We're not running anymore."

"It's safer to stay mobile." She said.

John didn't disagree. "Might be safer, but it's no way to live. Running isn't the only way to be safe anyway, just the easiest way. I'll work something out. _We'll_ work something out."

"You mean you and I?" She said.

"Yeah. It will probably be just us for a while. I've been thinking about it but…" Now it was Johns turn to trail off.

Cameron caught on almost immediately. "You don't want to tell me."

"No, not yet. But I will, alright?"

"Then we both have secrets." She said.

"Yeah we do. We always have. It's a trait of the Connor clan." John chuckled.

"Am I part of the Connor clan?" She asked. When John looked at her he could see a smile growing at one corner of her mouth.

"Yeah. We're a weird group. You got mom, I'm sure you'll meet her down the road. Or meet her again, anyway. She's nuts. She might actually hit me the next time she sees me. Uncle Derek, you two were always buddy-buddy. There've been a few others. There might be more, you know, after things get settled."

Cameron tilted her head at one of the names. "What happened to Derek?"

The question caught John off guard. He had been thinking about his family, the people that flitted in and out of his life. He thought of them all, Charlie and Derek and even Riley, the people that made up his tiny world. They were gone, the only proof they'd ever been was locked between the two people lying on the bed.

"What do you mean?"

"Derek Reese died in 2009. I read about it in your book." Cameron said. She wasn't smiling anymore. "It said he was killed protecting you."

"Yeah, he died. He got shot. It's an occupational hazard of being around John Connor."

"I guess it's good that I'm bulletproof then." Cameron said.

"Yeah, I'm glad you are." John smiled. "Speaking of…do you need any help with those?"

Cameron's dress was decorated with a tight cluster of gunshots, accented with powder burns and blood spatter. There were four or five of them just under her left breast. When John looked back at her, she was giving him a very strange look.

"What? I was just asking –"

"I took them out while I was driving." Cameron said.

John slumped back on the bed. Despite his best efforts, he was smiling. It might have been his first genuine smile in days, and behind it he suppressed a laugh that threatened to tear his stitches. "Well, you could have had help. That's all I was saying."

"You were in the back seat, asleep."

"Like you said, I'd been shot. I'll tell you what, next time someone is pointing a gun at us, I'll jump in front of him, sound good?"

Cameron snapped her head around to face him. "You will not…" She said. "…ever, ever do that."

"I'm unpredictable." John said. "You're not the only badass here you know."

Cameron waited for a moment. She seemed to come to some decision, and John drew in a breath as she reached across his bare chest. She lay her arm there across his heart, putting more than a little of her weight on him. In this position their faces were only inches apart, and without realizing it John had parted his lips slightly. She was so close…

"Ow! Fuck!" He said, flinching.

Cameron gave him a satisfied look and pulled her finger away from the dressing. "According to that, I am the only one here who can take a bullet, so don't get any ideas."

She got up, all the while looking right at him until she reached the window where she turned and assumed a standing pose, looking out over the parking lot.

'_It must be instinct_.' John thought. Surely she didn't remember that she was his guardian? He was at a loss to say just what was there against what wasn't, but at that moment he didn't care. Whatever came back, it would be enough. With a deep breath he realized he could still smell her.

"John, you should get some sleep." She said. "We have a long way to go tomorrow. We leave before dawn."

"I suppose you're driving." He said.

"Naturally."

"So where are you driving us to?"

"I'm making it up as I go." She said. Looking over her shoulder, she flashed one last smile. "I hope that's alright."

John just nodded his agreement. He couldn't remember the last time they talked, just talked. It felt good, it made him feel normal. For now, the walls weren't falling in around him. For the first time in a long time he felt safe.

He waited for a while with his hands tucked under his arms as he sank into the bed. He wanted to sleep. For a while, he didn't. For a while the only sound was his heartbeat, that and the assuring sound of blood rushing in his veins. He opened his eyes just a little to see Cameron by the window, standing in a pool of light.

She moved as he watched. First, with her arms at her sides and her head just turned so he could see her profile. John saw her arms come up, forming an arc over her shoulders as she let her spine curve gently towards the floor. Cameron bent one knee and turned in a motion so fluid he thought she might actually be falling. When she recovered and rose to her full height he drew in a quick breath.

Leaning back as if supported by strings, she saw him watching. She said nothing, John said nothing. She continued her dance, and her curved form in the moonlight was the last thing he saw before falling asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

It was either the 23rd or the 24th of April, he had lost track of the days. Winston Voss sat hunkered down in a sweltering corner if his Los Angeles home and workshop, mopping sweat from his brow with a damp rag. In one hand he had a wire trigger attached to fifty pounds of shaped charges that he hoped wouldn't kill him if he had to set them off. In the other hand he had an empty Coke bottle, his last. Soon he would have to move, it was only a matter of biology.

He set the Coke down carefully on the floor, sure not to make a sound. Leaning against his leg was a beautiful blue-nickel pump action shotgun. He popped the chamber open to look inside, saw the green double-ought staring back at him and closed the chamber. In the last hour, he had done this sixteen times. He just had to be sure.

Winston knew that he smelled of piss and sweat, but those were small concerns. What concerned him was the lack of phased-plasma weaponry at his disposal, his general state of unpreparedness and the uncomfortable realization that he had actually gotten fat.

_Didn't see that coming_, he thought. That and, _Damn me for getting lazy_.

This place had made him soft.

Winston was his given name, Voss was just something he'd come up with for his trip back to the twentieth. No one called him that though. Here, he didn't have any friends, didn't need any. The people that counted called him the Engineer, and he was here to build a time machine.

But, as he was afraid might happen, Winston had gotten sloppy. Perhaps this was just a wakeup call? Connor did that sometimes, just to keep you on your toes. He'd turn one of his retuned endo's loose on you just to get your head right and then he'd laugh his ass off about it. Yeah, John Connor was a Grade-A muh-tha-fucka in Winston's book. That was probably why they got along so well.

But even this seemed like a stretch. True, he had been expecting…someone. It might have been Dirk or Guy, two techies that he'd gotten along with pretty well. Hell he wouldn't put it passed John to send an endo after him, just to keep him on task. It might have been any of those, or any number of others, but Winston seriously doubted it would be all three.

And yet…

On the morning of the 18th Winston had rose from his hammock, a swinging tarp set between two steel 'I' beams and walked down to the diner on 43rd street. For the last few months this had been his routine. He tried cooking but ended up burning most of his food, and his homemade coffee tasted like industrial solvent. The diner down the street, the _Jam Stop_, had served as one of his haunts ever since the hangover of January 7th. Their coffee had saved his life, or so he liked to think, and there he'd had a revelation literally on the back of a napkin.

The engineer was a thinking man, not really a soldier. Give him a gun and he could point it the right way, but he was much more comfortable sitting at his easel or hammering out differential equations with the Three Wise Men. He thought big, usually too big for other people to grasp, but in Connor he'd found a sort of kindred spirit. No one had been more surprised than the Engineer – who ever heard of a general slinging code? But truth was stranger than fiction, and after all, his initials were J.C., just like another man he looked up to.

So sitting in the diner while the jukebox scratched out _Folsom Prison Blues,_ he finally started to get his head around why he was here. Of course he knew the reason – build a TDE. But he knew John, and therein was the revelation as part of a greater plan. John thought big too, very big. They played chess once, and no matter what he did Winston couldn't break him. John didn't play moves, he played moods. He got inside your head. That morning in the diner, Winston thought he had seen inside Johns head, if only for a moment.

Sending a man back to 1960 – when he'd arrived – from 2027 was all part of a more global plan. Skynet dominated the front from the standpoint of resources and firepower. They simply had more, there was no escaping that. Their soldiers didn't get tired or drunk either, they were perfect killing machines. Humanity needed an edge, and the edge started right here.

The way Winston saw it, he was the lynchpin of everything that happened from this point forward. They knew Skynet was polluting the timeline with assassins, arranging for vital resources to be where it needed them. The computer even had a grand plan of its own, of this the Engineer was certain, but he didn't have the time to compress that one. He was here for intel, not just as a way station in time.

He was still scribbling on his napkin even as he rushed out the door, slapping a dollar on the counter for fifty cents worth of coffee. He drew a machine, like the TDE, built around the same physical principles, the same mathematical equations governing its functions. He started work that afternoon.

For two weeks he slept only a few hours a day, never more than two or three at a time. He was under siege from his own mind, working what it saw into a mesh of steel cable and insulators decorated with tightly wound copper inductors. He strung the cables from his own workshop, taking great care to set the inductors at the correct angles to center, where he would build the detector. There, in the center he composed a mass of integrated conductors that all fed into a tiny glass case. In the case he set the armature.

This part had been the easiest. It was from an old seismograph, liberated one afternoon from the UCLA geology store room. It was the perfect solution to display the degrees of distance, the quantities of mass and the variations of energy that were the telltale signs of temporal displacement. With his detector he could know when displacement had occurred, how near it was to him and, with a little help from a number two pencil, the mass.

The Engineer slept for a few days before he made the final adjustments. Then, with an almost parental nervousness, he turned it on.

In retrospect, he hardly expected to see anything. It was a wonderful device, it would keep him safe, he thought. It could help the resistance – they would know when time was being tampered with. They could have the upper hand for once. He just wished that it had taken a little longer for him to find out that it worked.

Because it did work. In fact, on the morning of April 18th it worked three times.

The first one must have happened while he was out for coffee. He left at the usual time, around eight, just glancing at the drum, the little armature wiggling slightly as he trotted by. There was nothing to see from the previous night. The tiny pen hardly shifted more than an eighth of an inch from center for the last week.

When he returned he resumed work. Winston had a small paper bag with two sausage biscuits. He had taken the first one, one the size of his fist and crammed nearly all of it in his mouth when it went flying out in greasy chunks. He skidded across the floor as he heard the armature slide over the paper, its sound unmistakable.

There was drawn a rough, low arch. Winston leaned in to see the line more clearly. The way the machine was built you could learn everything from its output. The length of the arch would tell you the mass being displaced, the area underneath the approximate distance. The line itself was also of interest. With a magnifying glass, he held the page up to the light and saw the rough, imperfect outline he had been hoping for.

He breathed out, letting his heart slow down. Winston even laughed when he noticed the first arc, the one that happened while he was away. Two displacements, in one hour?

"John what are you up to my friend?" He said to himself. The other line was similarly rough, indicating the kind of TDE that the resistance might employ. It wasn't perfect, it was electrically noisy at best and that was reflected in the graph. The first one was farther away too. Much farther.

The Engineer scratched his head as he turned away. He eyed the shotgun in the corner. He had to be safe, after all. That was what this was all about, his safety. John was counting on him, and he'd be damned if he let John Connor down. After all, you never really did know who might be coming through.

He had taken two steps when the armature moved again. Winston turned to see a third arc appear on the paper drum, longer than the others and higher too. It was close. It was only when the armature reached up and bounced over the edge of the paper that he realized just how close it was. The displacement was probably no more than a mile distant. And whatever it was, it was massive.

What followed was a flurry of activity in the warehouse. Winston ran from one door to the next, checking the locks, dousing the power that fed his inventions. Forgetting his breakfast, he made one, two and finally three circuits around the perimeter before he dove into his hidey-hole; a carefully constructed fortress of ancient tires, stacked almost to the ceiling. They wouldn't stop a machine, Winston knew of nothing in this century that would, but they were insulating to both sound and heat.

Here he stood his guard. For four days he watched, surviving on Coke and one sausage biscuit.

Before hiding Winston grabbed the output from the drum. In a rush he tore the paper at one end, then the other as he tried to isolate the three displacements. He thought about shutting the detector down but decided that he would risk leaving it on. The electronic signature might be a giveaway if someone was looking, but he wanted to know if there were any more displacements. So far, four days later, the drum was inactive.

Still, he had the sheet and his pencil, and around noon on the second day he'd taken a closer look at the recordings.

The first displacement had been so distant that the arc barely rose a half an inch above center. Winston thought that with the fidelity of his machine, if it had been much farther away he wouldn't have seen it at all. The line sagged in the center. He hadn't anticipated that. For a moment he imagined two displacements on top of one another, but deemed that impossible.

The second arc was similar, a jittery teardrop along the paper. Winston plugged in the equation for mas and distance. This signal was closer, probably half the distance from him as the first. The mass displaced looked to be smaller as well, less than a hundred kilos. If there was one that seemed like a likely resistance contact, it would be that one. No endo that John would send would be so slight. No, John liked his endos big and burley. And that brought him to the last signal.

Down in his belly Winston knew this one had to be Skynet. The arc was perfect, the line drawn as if from a stencil. The TDE that produced this displacement would be similar – highly refined metals, machine-tooled parts with narrow tolerances. The distance was a concern. If his math was right, and it always was, he guessed that he could walk for fifteen minutes and find the remnants of the displacement. What worried him was the mass. Using his finger to measure, he guessed at a mass of at least two hundred kilograms. That meant a trip-eight. That meant an infiltrator.

Triple-eight chassis weren't as heavily built as the eight hundred, but they were smarter. Winston wondered if he would spot this one in time. The shotgun, comforting as it was, would be of little use against anything hunting him. What he needed was his car and his gear. He needed to make a choice – stay and fight, or run away and hide.

So far, he had made a fair run at _wait to die_.

That thought snapped him back into the present. He tried to stir his legs back to waking and felt the pins and needles start in his toes and radiate upward.

"Well you're good and cornered now my friend." He said aloud. A truck ran by outside and the Engineer could make out the rumble of the diesel, the smell of the exhaust. He didn't have a thermometer, but he guessed the temperature in his building was close to the century mark.

_One foot at a time_. Winston leaned forward and gritted his teeth. His joints seemed to be frozen in place. When he tried to straighten up, instead of movement he was rewarded with an intense burning sensation. If anything was actually going to get him, now was the time. With the shotgun as his support, finally he moved forward.

He took a few steps. Satisfied that his legs weren't going to give out on him, he shuffled over to the detector. The drum had run out of paper. He quickly scanned through what had accumulated on the floor and saw nothing to cause him to go back into hiding. From the detector it was about twenty yards to the front door. Raising the shotgun, he advanced to the door.

There was a narrow shaft of sunlight coming through the crease between the steel door and the rest of the building. He looked at the shadow, then at his watch. It looked to be a little after noon. Winston disengaged the padlock with the turn of a key and stepped out into a blinding spring day in Los Angeles.

He looked left, then right. There was no one on the street, and no one on the low rooftops around his workshop. Turning his ears to the street, Winston couldn't hear any sirens, no screams. While he had been away, life in California continued undisturbed. Parking the shotgun right by the door, he chanced a step into the sunshine. His first thought was of the diner and two sausage biscuits.

At that point he had a more practical turn of mind. His car was parked in the shade on the north side of the building. You had to walk all the way around to get to it. Once there had been a door, but instead of leaving an obvious point of entry Winston sealed it up. In a pinch you could vault down from the roof – but the fall would probably break your legs.

His car, a shiny black Cadillac chromed and polished, was right where he left it. He had the detector output too, and measuring the distance a little more closely he thought that what he was looking for had to be around here, somewhere close. It was probably in the same warehouse district in fact.

The engineer didn't have to drive long. The district was arranged on a grid and he took right turns as he searched from one block to the next. Turning right for the ninth time he was now a good four or five blocks from where he started. He drove a block down Chester Ave and then it appeared to his left. There, sticking from the ground like charred ribs were the remains of a small industrial building, obviously consumed by fire.

He tried to remember exactly what had been here. A packing plant? A warehouse? Whatever it had been, nothing remained. Everything inside was reduced to ash. He gave an involuntary shudder. The landscape was eerily familiar. At first, nothing odd stuck out at him. For a moment the Winston thought maybe the fire had just been an accident. He came to a steel pillar, a ceiling support and took another step and nearly fell forward. There was a depression here.

It wasn't deep, maybe only six or eight inches, but it was perfectly spherical. Winston reached down to touch the concrete – it was smooth as glass, melted black. The tubular pillar near where he stood showed not only soot from the fire, but the telltale signs of electrical discharge. It had happened here, right here. Just blocks away from where he had been.

Without another glance he ran back to his car. His first instinct was to be utterly terrified. Here, there had been a machine. Here, so close to his location and yet it had just vanished. That left only one logical conclusion – it wasn't looking for him. It couldn't possibly have been so close and just walked by, could it? He imagined the infiltrator, searching for a target. It would have gone to the diner, it would show a picture or given a description. It would have found him in hours.

Fear gave way to a strange sense of calm. Winston put both hands on the wheel and pulled out into the street. It may not be here for him, but it sure as hell wasn't sightseeing. Winston felt an electric thrill go through him. He could kill it. In his mind, he drew it out on the back of an envelope. He would hunt the hunter.

But first, a shower.

And biscuits.

**Authors note: I hope you guys like the engineer. He plays an important role in the rest of the story, and he'll get to know some of the OC's and some of the canon characters. I know I switched between calling him Winston (from ghostbusters!) and the Engineer. I hope you can forgive, but I think Winston actually sounds better. Thank you for any feedback!**


End file.
